Gotham's Cinderella
by InkFairy
Summary: When Bruce Wayne's secretary stumbles upon his secret, they strike a deal. By agreeing to play his girlfriend, Valencia Carter helps him battle Gotham's gossips as the Batman continues to battle the criminal underworld. It was just supposed to be a business arrangement, but things are never so simple in this city. Bruce/OC
1. The Return

_**Disclaimer**__: Unfortunately, nothing is mine except Valencia Carter and this silly little fairy tale._

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><p><strong>GOTHAM'S CINDERELLA<br>****Chapter 1: The Return  
><strong>_"No one returns to this city unless they have a very good reason to."_

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><p>Once upon a time, Valencia Carter left Gotham City, sure she would never return. Now, as she drives through the streets she had been prepared to forget forever, she realizes there is nothing certain within these dark city limits. Certainly not taxes—if the city had the power to collect taxes, it would have used it to salvage its increasingly bankrupt economy or pay for police officers who actually knew the meaning of justice—<p>

"Miss Carter, we're here."

The driver's voice jolts her out of her reverie. She looks out the window of the company car and sees a brand new mansion built in a very old style: Wayne Manor, burned down and rebuilt by a billionaire heir come back to life from the dead. No, nothing was certain in this city—not taxes, and certainly not death.

Despite the driver's theatrical glance at his watch, she opens the door and steps out of the car, pulling the collar of her beige trench coat against the wind that perpetually blows around the grounds of the highest property in the Palisades. She walks toward the closed gates and tests them, but they stubbornly remain locked. She sighs and rests her head against the cool metal.

Everything is new, even the iron grille she is leaning against. She gives Bruce Wayne credit for making the effort to preserve some illusion of history instead of simply building a modern monstrosity on top of the wreckage, but she wonders if inside it could possibly _feel_ like the same home she remembers.

The driver rolls down his window and clears his throat pointedly with a curt "A-_hem_." As she turns, she sees a Bentley in the distance coming down the drive. With one last look at the house, she slips back into the car.

The driver swings the vehicle in the direction of Gotham. And even though they're going fast enough to make the gravel fly, she swears she catches the eye of the elderly man driving the Bentley as the two cars' paths cross.

* * *

><p><em><strong>Although my lover lives in a place that I can't live,<br>**__**I kind of find I like a life this lonely.  
><strong>__**It rips and pierces me in places I can't see.  
><strong>__**I love the rip of nerves, the rip that wakes me.  
><strong>__**So I'm dissatisfied, I love dissatisfied.  
><strong>__**I love to feel there's always more that I need.  
><strong>__**So come on home, so come on home,  
><strong>__**So come on home, home.**_

* * *

><p>Bruce Wayne's private jet hardly touches down on the runway before the door flies open and a young woman in a too tight, too short business suit storms down the steps and marches punishingly across the tarmac in four-inch heels. She walks past the butler standing beside a parked Bentley without a glance. More slowly and more wearily, the owner of the multi-billion dollar corporation known worldwide as Wayne Enterprises steps off the plane in an Armani suit, immaculate despite a 10-hour flight.<p>

"That's the third secretary you've been through in the last two months," Alfred Pennyworth comments as he opens the door for his young master.

"And not in the way the tabloids say," Bruce says, sliding across the back leather seat.

"What was it this time, sir?" Alfred asks as he takes his place behind the wheel and starts the car.

"Oh, the usual, Alfred—asking too many questions, trying to sleep with the boss."

"If more men were as secretly moral as you, sir—"

"There would be more masked vigilantes running around Gotham."

"Speaking of which…"

"More imposters?"

"You know what happens when the bat's away, sir," Alfred says, handing him a stack of newspapers from the last week.

Bruce rubs the bridge of his nose as he flips through pages of fake sightings and crime reports attributed to his alter ego. "Well, the rats won't have another chance to play for a while," he says. "The deal went through relatively easy. We had a bit of trouble when the transactions raised some red flags with intelligence, but it was nothing additional transactions couldn't take care of." Bruce frowns as Alfred turns onto the road leading to the Palisades instead of the one toward the city center. "I thought I had the hospital benefit to go to tonight at Gotham Memorial?"

"Yes, sir, but I thought you'd like to go home to freshen up a bit first."

"Isn't home…?"

Alfred allows himself a small smile as Bruce's voice trails off at the first glimpse of the newly finished Wayne Manor, just visible in the distance as they crest a hill. For the first time, the worry lines disappear from Bruce's forehead.

"You didn't tell me it was finished."

"I wanted it to be a surprise, Master Bruce. Though I will admit it's a very incomplete one. I only had time to move some necessities in. There's no furniture to speak of, and I hope you don't mind the smell of fresh paint —"

"Thank you, Alfred," Bruce says sincerely. He pauses, then asks casually, "And the improvements to the southeast corner?"

Alfred does not answer immediately, his concentration on the road as they pass another car going in the opposite direction. Bruce frowns as Alfred continues to watch the car in the rearview mirror long after they pass.

"Alfred?" Bruce glances back, but the car is already out of sight. "Someone you know?

"For a minute, I thought so." The butler smiles, but it doesn't quite reach his eyes. "The cave is fully operational, sir. Mr. Fox is there right now putting the finishing touches on the technological system."

Despite his impatience to see the cave, Bruce takes his time as he walks through the empty manor. The architects had been given very specific instructions to preserve the look of the original mansion. It isn't identical, with more outdated amenities replaced by modern features, but it still looks like the manor built in a 16th-century Gothic style by Bruce's eccentric great-great-great-grandfather, founder of the Wayne legacy.

Bruce pauses halfway up the marble staircase and looks down at the empty entrance hall, trying to get some sense of the home his parents had lived in.

"Your parents never quite liked the furniture in this house," Alfred says, confirming Bruce's suspicion that the older man has the ability to read his thoughts. "I have some catalogs for you to look through when you get the chance."

Bruce grimaces at the thought of dealing with interior designers and shopping at furniture galleries. "But we don't have to entertain here for a while yet, do we, Alfred?"

"There's only been photographers hounding the gates for the last three months. Gotham wants to see its prince happily situated in his castle. Three national magazines are currently bidding for a photo spread."

"How much are we holding out for?"

"When they reach six zeroes, we'll starting taking calls. Your new toys weren't exactly inexpensive."

They've reached the master bedroom. The only piece of furniture in the room is a massive floor-to-ceiling, fully stocked bookcase. Alfred steps right up to the shelves, Bruce only half a step behind.

"I didn't know I liked to read so much," Bruce muses, eyes glancing over the titles on the spines. His eyebrow quirks at one book, rather thicker than the rest. "I never did read that book."

"Yes, I suspected as much," Alfred says, sliding _The Fountainhead_ toward the edge of the shelf. "This is your copy from high school, but someone else with much neater handwriting made notes in the margin for you. If you ever find yourself bored one night, you might look into the significance behind these titles."

He also half pulls out _The Scarlet Pimpernel_ and _The Count of Monte Cristo_. The case swings open, leading to an industrial lift. As Bruce steps in after Alfred and the case swings shut noiselessly behind them, his thoughts are still on the yellowed, dog-eared editions on the shelf.

"It was probably Rachel." Alfred stiffens slightly as he pulls the lift's lever. "It's all right," Bruce says reassuringly, as they descend into darkness. The corners of his mouth twitch upward. "She's the one who wrote my book reports, after all."

The lights are almost blinding as the lift stops and they step into the cave. Though the walls are still jagged rock and water still falls overhead in some areas, the dryer parts of cave have more of a permanent and comfortable feel to them than before.

"I just received Miss Ferrier's resignation letter," Lucius Fox announces as he looks up from a computer screen. "Do you care to explain this one, Mr. Wayne?"

"Oh, you know, the usual. Do you care to explain what you've done to my cave?" Bruce asks, frowning at the glass wall that sections off the cave and the shining black granite floor that has replaced the uneven rock he remembers.

"The glass wall is retractable, but necessary for temperature control," Fox says as he stands. "Wouldn't want Batman catching pneumonia now, would we?"

"Or myself," Alfred mutters.

"And it keeps your friends out," Fox continues, nodding to the bats fluttering on the cave walls. He points next to a sectioned off room to the side. "You also have a fully stocked medical clinic, which should enable you to do anything from treating paper cuts to performing minor surgery, just in case those Chihuahuas get more aggressive, Mr. Wayne."

He pulls open the doors of a titanium cabinet, revealing the newest rendition of the suit. "This version is much like the last one, still Kevlar plates and titanium-dipped fiber tri-weave, but we reinforced the weakest spots on the chest, where you're most likely to get shot or stabbed. Also, the cape is now detachable with a press of this button on the shoulder, should you run into trouble and the material proves more of a hindrance than a help."

He next moves to the row of computers arranged in a broad semicircle in the middle of the place. "I made some minor adjustments to the communication system. These computers should be able to seamlessly send data to the suit." He takes a remote control and turns on a row of televisions mounted above the computers. "Thanks to the generous donation by Wayne Enterprises of surveillance cameras throughout the city, we now have access to every street corner in Gotham. We've also stockpiled footage that can be inserted in the feed, should you need to move through the city undetected."

"This is all very nice and completely up to my expectations, but I know you're hiding one new toy from me, Mr. Fox," Bruce says.

Fox smiles. "I thought you'd never ask, Mr. Wayne."

He flips a switch mounted directly on the rock wall, and a panel protracts overhead, cutting off the flow of water and revealing the Tumbler's successor, parked on an island of rock some twenty feet away. He presses another button, and the glass wall starts to retract, allowing Bruce to have an uninhibited view of the vehicle.

"It's built as sturdily as the Tumbler but more streamlined and compact to make it more friendly to Gotham City streets." Fox hands Bruce the keys. "Try not to blow this one up, Mr. Wayne, or it might take another six months to get a new one."

"Pity, I'd gotten quite good at pretending to steal my own Lamborghini." He shakes Fox's hand. "Thank you for everything, Lucius. Now, I believe you're also going to bore yourself to death at the Gotham Memorial benefit tonight?"

"I am."

"Why don't you drive in with me?" Bruce suggests. "I think I may have a new project for R&D to work on."

"You'll find everything you need in the closet in your bedroom, Master Bruce," Alfred says. "I'll keep Mr. Fox entertained while you get ready."

"Make it a double," Bruce says with a smile, as he steps into the lift and pulls the grille closed. "This is a Megara Ashland-planned affair, after all."

"Well, Lucius, will it be the usual?" Alfred asks, walking toward a cabinet once Bruce had ascended.

"Actually, it's the unusual I'm interested in," the other man replies cryptically. "Can you think of any reason why Valencia Carter would be back in town?"

"So it was her," Alfred says, more to himself than to Fox.

"I was hoping you could tell me."

Fox punches a few keys on the nearest computer's keyboard. The screen comes to life, showing surveillance footage of the front gate being rewound. He stops it shortly after a car drives up and a young woman gets out to look at the house. Fox freezes the video and enhances the image of the woman as she peers through the gates.

"That's undoubtedly her," Alfred confirms, sharp blue eyes latching onto the still slightly grainy image on the screen.

"I wasn't sure," Fox admits. "It's been six years, hasn't it?"

Alfred nods thoughtfully. "I haven't a clue why she would be here now."

"I'll look into it," Fox says. "No one returns to this city unless they have a very good reason to."

* * *

><p><em><strong>You're where you want to be, I'm where I want to be.<br>**__**Come on we're chasing everything we've ever wanted.  
><strong>__**I replace you easily, replace pathetically.  
><strong>__**I flirt with every flighty thing that falls my way.  
><strong>__**But how I needed you, when I needed you.  
><strong>__**Let's not forget we are so strong, so bloody strong.  
><strong>__**Come on home, so come on home,  
><strong>__**So come on home, home.**_

* * *

><p>In the early hours of the morning, business is finally concluded. The same driver who had taken Valencia to Wayne Manor that afternoon receives his last orders of the day to see Miss Carter safely to her new apartment.<p>

They drive through downtown Gotham, and she catches glimpses of cheap girls in expensive dresses, hanging onto the arms of designer suits, stumbling out of exclusive clubs and five-star restaurants, stepping into limos and sports cars, traipsing into $30,000 per night hotels where the front desk knows them by name because they either own the building or live in the penthouse.

The driver unceremoniously drops her off at her apartment on the edge of the Narrows, and it's almost painful, the disparity between what she has just driven through and what she sees now across the river: poverty to the point of desperation within blocks of a dreamy and depraved sort of decadence.

Gotham was never a gentle city, but as much as she wants to hate it, she can't. It's the city of her childhood, the city she'd escaped, the city that still draws her in no matter how much she resists. She can't think of any other word to describe it except beautiful—a terrifying, breathtaking, soul-sucking sort of beautiful. It's a city of extremes with no room for in-betweens, a city that could only break and never make, a city that knows of no happily ever afters, but it's still the city she calls home.

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><p><em><strong>Blue light falls upon your perfect skin,<br>**__**Falls and you draw back again,  
><strong>__**Falls, and this is how I fell.  
><strong>__**And I cannot forget this, I cannot forget this.  
><strong>__**Come on home, so come on home,  
><strong>__**But don't forget to leave  
><strong>_—"Come on Home" by Franz Ferdinand

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><p><strong><em>AN: _**_Please review!_


	2. The Interview

_**Disclaimer:**_ _Unfortunately, nothing is mine except Valencia Carter and this silly little fairy tale._

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><p><strong>GOTHAM'S CINDERELLA<br>****Chapter 2: The Interview  
><strong>_He doesn't know why exactly, but he knows then that he's going to hire her._

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><p>Gotham Clock Tower announces the hour as Bruce Wayne's Rolls Royce pulls up to the curb in front of Wayne Tower. Some of the older employees shake their heads at the sight. It's one o'clock in the afternoon.<p>

But the richest man in the city appears not to have a care in the world as he strolls in, a flirtatious smile or firm handshake at the ready for whomever he passes. There's no secretary waiting to greet him in lobby, proudly stand beside him on the elevator ride up to the 40th floor, press her body against his as the elevator takes on more passengers, and he rather likes the freedom this absence affords him. He briefly toys with the idea of not hiring a replacement, but much like his new Lamborghini, a sexy secretary at his side serves as a necessary accessory to his image.

The sight that greets him when he gets off on his floor nearly makes him turn around. Dozens of heavily made-up girls, wearing tightly tailored suits and stilettos of varying heights and shades, have overrun the place, sitting on all available surfaces, including but not limited to side tables only meant for lamps and the edges of the other employees' desks.

The chief of staff, a middle-aged woman who never misses a chance to tell Bruce exactly what she thinks about his lack of professionalism and playboy ways, spots him from across the room as she shows a sobbing applicant out of the inner office.

"So you finally decided to show up, Mr. Wayne."

The office falls silent. Spines straighten to the tautness of metal rods, heavily-mascaraed eyelashes flutter frantically, smiles flash brightly in his direction. Bruce hopes his answering smile doesn't look too fixed as he flourishes a bow in the direction of the platinum blondes and midnight brunettes.

With a roll of her eyes, Linda Page takes Bruce by the arm and bodily hauls him into Fox's office.

"Mr. Fox is on a _well-deserved_ lunch break, and the best you can do is get through at least one interview before he returns," she informs him sternly.

"Anything for you," he says roguishly, winking suggestively at her.

"Oh, get on with you," she says dismissively, shooing him toward Fox's desk. "Now, anyone out there catch your eye?"

"Yes," he replies, flipping open some files. "All of them."

Linda sighs exasperatedly as she sticks her head out the door, yelling at an intern to get coffee.

He raises an eyebrow at the high stack of files that indicate the number of applicants still waiting to be interviewed. An equal amount of files overflow the wastepaper basket. Only one file sits in the tray Linda had marked as 'maybe.'

"Lucius has only liked one so far?" he asks, thumbing through the single 'maybe.' He frowns, noticing the file is much thicker than the rest. Aside from a résumé and a list of references, the rest of the papers are records Fox seems to have pulled himself.

"Valencia Carter?" Linda reads the name off the file. "No, we haven't seen her yet."

"Are you sure?"

She gives him a withering look. "Don't you think I would have remembered a name like that? The name does rather ring a bell, though. Valencia Carter…" she tests the name again. "You sure she's not one of your exes?"

"I'm sure I would have remembered a name like that," he drawls.

Linda purses her lips. "_I_ wouldn't be so sure." She snatches the résumé out of his hands. "No college education, but no spelling mistakes either, which is something, considering this pool. Hmm, two years secretarial at Daggett Industries, London—if that's true she'll be the most qualified applicant we interviewed _ever_. Much too over-qualified to sit around waiting for you to come in at one in the afternoon and be fired in two weeks."

She throws the résumé toward the wastepaper basket, but Bruce catches it deftly in midair.

"Who knows? Thirty, forty years from now, she might be chief of staff for the CEO." It's a dig with a little sting, for Linda's humble beginnings at Wayne Enterprises entailed being just a secretary. "Why don't you send her in?" Bruce suggests with a smile as he throws himself into Fox's chair and plants his feet on the edge of the desk.

Too irritated for words, Linda simply does what he asks.

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><p><em><strong>Back to the street where we began,<br>**__**Feeling as good as lovers can, you know.  
><strong>__**Yeah, we're feeling so good.  
><strong>__**Picking up things we shouldn't read,  
><strong>__**It looks like the end of history as we know.  
><strong>__**It's just the end of the world.  
><strong>__**Back to the street where we began,  
><strong>__**Feeling as good as love, you could, you can.**_

* * *

><p>The first thing he notices are her shoes. They're shiny, black patent leather… flats. It might be the first time a woman has walked into Wayne Tower in anything less than four-inch heels.<p>

His eyes quickly ascend to see what type of body accompanies the sensible footwear. She's a study in opposites and extremes being forced together, his quick eye decides. Her business suit is all severe angles, conforming to Gotham's definition of beauty, but it sits at odds with the body it clothes, which is anything but sharp… and can't be called anything but curvy, the playboy in him adds. A stick-straight curtain of deep red hair creates more angles around her face, hardening the soft, youthful planes of her cheeks.

"Good afternoon, Miss Carter."

With a smile he stands, heels flying down to take the weight of his body in a motion so fluid and balanced Valencia can't help but appreciate it. Not many men can pull off a sunflower-yellow silk tie, cream shirt and light grey suit and still be overwhelmingly masculine and confident, but Bruce Wayne somehow accomplishes just this… with a daisy on top.

As they both reach across the desk to shake hands, her grey-blue eyes leap out from behind her curtain of red hair to meet his brown ones, her gaze straightforward with a dash of curiosity and not a hint of come-hither. There's a sharp intelligence behind the façade of wide-eyed innocence… and it makes him wonder what else she's hiding.

She smiles then, and it completely undoes the effect of her straight hair and severe suit. She's younger than she's trying to look. He twitches aside her résumé to look at her birth certificate. She's 22.

"Miss Carter, thank you for showing interest in this position," he begins, gesturing her into a chair.

"It appears I'm not the only one. Thank you for meeting with me, Mr. Wayne. I really appreciate it."

"It's my pleasure. I hope you weren't waiting too long."

"Not at all, but I was surprised at how many people there were. Is it always like this?"

"Usually," he replies. "Not very many positions open up here at Wayne Enterprises, and when they do, there's always many people who want the job."

Their small talk is a formality, like rehearsed lines simply being recited. There's an ever-so-slight air of condescension about her, as if she is humoring him. He does this to others all the time, but to be on the receiving end, no matter how subtle, makes for quite a new experience. She's immune to him, he realizes, above the influence of his charm, his reputation and his name.

He doesn't know why exactly, but he knows then that he's going to hire her.

"You, uh, worked at Daggett?" Bruce says, turning back to her file.

He discreetly flips through the rest of the information Fox had collected on her and comes across a printout of a grainy picture. Unless he's mistaken, it's a screenshot from one of the security cameras mounted outside the gates of Wayne Manor. He glances down at the date; it's only from a few days ago. _Curioser and curioser_…

"Yes, I was a secretary in their public relations office for two years. When they downsized, I decided to try my luck back here. It's probably not the best city for that, but…" she trails off, causing Bruce to look up. She's looking out the wall of glass behind him, drinking in the Gotham skyline. "But it's not such a bad city to fall back on, don't you think?"

_This _is the truth, pure and simple, not the manufactured version she's been presenting to him up to this point. He can see it in the faraway look in her eyes.

"Not too many people would agree," he observes seriously.

"Do you?"

The grey-blue orbs focus in on him again. This isn't flirtation; this is philosophy, a challenge he doesn't quite understand but one that he rises to meet anyway.

"Gotham will always be the home of Wayne Enterprises, for as long as I'm around at least."

"And who knows how long that will be for?" Linda's brusque voice interjects.

Finally breaking eye contact, they both look to the doorway. Linda is holding the door open for Fox, who is looking interestedly between Bruce and Valencia.

"Miss Carter," Fox says, coming forward and shaking her hand warmly, familiarly. "Welcome back to Gotham."

"I…"

For the first time since she walked into the office, she's unsure, not completely in control.

"I see you've finally met Mr. Wayne." Bruce looks casually at the older man at the word 'finally,' but Fox pretends not to notice. "I apologize for having to cut your interview short, but Mr. Wayne and I have a few meetings to get through this afternoon."

"Yes, of course," she says, rising quickly, her hair somehow preventing Bruce from getting a clear look at her face. "It was nice meeting you, Mr. Wayne."

"Likewise, Miss Carter."

"We'll be in touch," Fox promises her, as he hands her off to Linda, who's waiting to escort her out.

Fox keeps the door open. "We do have a board meeting to get to, Mr. Wayne."

"I thought you were just getting me out of that interview," Bruce says as he tucks Valencia's file under his arm for a closer look during the meeting.

"Frankly, you didn't look like you wanted to get out of it, Mr. Wayne."

Bruce doesn't dignify Fox's remark with an answer as he heads for the boardroom.

* * *

><p><em><strong>Into a place where thoughts can bloom,<br>**__**Into a room where it's nine in the afternoon,  
><strong>__**And we know that it could be,  
><strong>__**And we know that it should,  
><strong>__**And you know that you feel it too.  
><strong>__**'Cause it's nine in the afternoon,  
><strong>__**And your eyes are the size of the moon.  
><strong>__**You could 'cause you can, so you do.  
><strong>__**We're feeling so good,  
><strong>__**Just the way that we do  
><strong>__**When it's nine in the afternoon,  
><strong>__**And your eyes are the size of the moon.  
><strong>__**You could 'cause you can, so you do.  
><strong>__**We're feeling so good.**_

* * *

><p>Valencia Carter has exactly five different plans of action should Bruce Wayne decide not to hire her, each one a little more far-fetched and desperate than the previous one. As she stands on a bridge that spans the Gotham River, she ponders option number five. It involves plunging into its cold depths.<p>

She'd probably survive, she reasons dispassionately. With her luck, she'd probably miss hitting the chunks of ice still floating on the river's surface, and she had been such a good swimmer in high school, no one would believe it was an accident once they identified her body and linked her with all those records she still probably holds at Gotham Prep.

It depresses her that the other girls who had been rejected are probably entertaining similar wishful thoughts of drowning, if only because Bruce Wayne hadn't noticed their impossibly slim figures, augmented by stilt-high shoes and God knows what else underneath. The murderous looks they had sent her way after she left Fox's office are almost enough to convince her that becoming secretary to the most eligible bachelor in the city might not be worth it. Almost.

They would be disappointed if she didn't get the job, and if there's one thing Valencia tries her hardest to avoid, it's disappointment. She'd seen it clearly flash across Fox's face when he first saw her in his office. And if her mother were still alive… oh God, she can just imagine the look on her mother's face. After all those years spent trying to give her a 'proper' upbringing, to end up applying to be Bruce Wayne's secretary! She can barely stomach the idea herself when she stops to think about it.

If only the hiring process had followed normal procedure, via agency or handled by some unimportant office person, everything would have gone according to plan. Her résumé would have blown everyone else's out of the water, she'd made sure of that.

If only her name hadn't been the first to come up when Bruce Wayne walked in. She never stood a chance in flats.

If only Fox hadn't remembered her. If only her name hadn't been plastered on the front page of every tabloid in town. If only he hadn't died…

She leans daringly over the edge of the bridge, trying to catch a glimpse of her reflection in the dark water. If only—it's a dangerous game to play in Gotham but an extremely tempting one. For example, if only he would come walking down the street right now, coming to meet her on the bridge as he used to every day, would he even recognize her?

He would, based strictly on appearances. She knows she doesn't look much different than she did six years ago. But what she's become… that's an entirely different matter.

She resolutely pushes off the rail, forcing her feet to make contact with the metal underfoot. There's not going to be a drowning tonight, at least not on her account, but she realizes she underestimated the power of her memory, her weakness. She keeps expecting to see him around every corner she turns. Her heart stops for a moment every time she passes someone who vaguely resembles him….

Perhaps coming back to this city hadn't been such a good idea after all.

The sun is beginning to set by the time she pulls herself together and heads home, turning her thoughts to plans B and C. It's not that she can't bear it, it's that she doesn't dare to disappoint them.

* * *

><p><em><strong>Back to the street, down to our feet,<br>**__**Losing the feeling of feeling unique.  
><strong>__**Do you know what I mean?  
><strong>__**Back to the place where we used to say,  
><strong>__**"Man it feels good to feel this way."  
><strong>__**Now I know what I mean.  
><strong>__**Back to the street, back to the place,  
><strong>__**Back to the room where it all began,  
><strong>__**Back to the room where it all began.**_

* * *

><p>When they finally end what Bruce believes to be the longest board meeting in the history of Wayne Enterprises, the sun hangs low in the sky, turning it into a spectrum of fading pastels. The hard white lights of Gotham twinkle in response to the darkening skies.<p>

Bruce accompanies Fox back to his office, which is now thankfully deserted. Ever patient, Fox bears his company silently as he calmly collects his things.

Bruce slowly and deliberately places Valencia's file in front of Fox.

"Who exactly is Valencia Carter, and why did you pull every record possible on her?"

"We would need to ensure that she has no ties to people who would benefit from harming the owner and sole heir of Wayne Enter—"

"Bullshit, Lucius," Bruce says good-naturedly. "You recognized her, and she knew you."

Fox sighs. "Her boyfriend used to be an intern at Applied Science when I was there. I met her a few times."

"And?"

"And I don't know much more than what ran in the papers, which is all in that file. It was a media circus, a story all the tabloids latched onto and blew out of proportion."

Bruce stares at Fox for a long moment, but the older man shows no sign of caving. He nods toward the waiting pile of applicant files.

"You can ask Linda to toss those out in the morning. The position's been filled."

"I'll call Miss Carter and tell her the good news."

He's frustrated that he can get no more information out of Fox, but Batman has an appointment to keep with Commissioner Jim Gordon, who had requested to meet him that night.

"Let me know how that new gadget is coming along," Bruce says, moving toward the door.

"I will, and Mr. Wayne?" Bruce pauses expectantly. Fox picks up the file and holds it out to him. "If you wanted to know more about Valencia Carter, I'd ask Mr. Pennyworth. He helped raise her."

* * *

><p><em><strong>'Cause it's nine in the afternoon.<br>**__**Your eyes are the size of the moon.  
><strong>__**You could 'cause you can, so you do.  
><strong>__**We're feeling so good,  
><strong>__**Just the way that we do  
><strong>__**When it's nine in the afternoon.  
><strong>__**Your eyes are the size of the moon.  
><strong>__**You could 'cause you can so you do.  
><strong>__**We're feeling so good,  
><strong>__**Just the way that we do  
><strong>__**When it's nine in the afternoon.  
><strong>__**Your eyes are the size of the moon.  
><strong>__**You could 'cause you can so you do.  
><strong>__**We're feeling so good,  
><strong>__**Just the way that we do  
><strong>__**When it's nine in the afternoon.  
><strong>_—"Nine in the Afternoon" by Panic! At the Disco

* * *

><p><em><strong>AN:**__ Please review! Also, more information about _Gotham's Cinderella_ can be found on my blog, accessible via my author page._


	3. The Disappointment

_**Disclaimer:**_ _Unfortunately, nothing is mine except Valencia Carter and this silly little fairy tale._

* * *

><p><strong>GOTHAM'S CINDERELLA<br>****Chapter 3: The Disappointment  
><strong>"_So she wasn't a Gotham Prep prodigy who got caught up in the city's underworld of crime, drugs and murder?"_

* * *

><p>Batman's hours are numbered.<p>

The sun will soon rise on a new day in Gotham, eliminating the shadows that make his existence possible. On the last leg of his patrol, he swoops over the unofficial border where the river divides the Narrows from downtown Gotham.

Gordon's news that the feds are coming to the city isn't a surprise. The power of big-name corporations had deflected government scrutiny in the past, but even Wayne Enterprises is no longer safe from inquiries and probes. His recent trip to Europe had been complicated by red flags raised by U.S. intelligence, and Fox had been dealing with a government-mandated tax audit for the last couple of months.

He knows they're planning on making Gotham an example for the entire country, a rehabilitation project to prove the power and effectiveness of the national government.

It was clear from Gordon's tone that he's more than irritated at the turn of events. After spending the last six months weeding out corrupt officers, the new commissioner had just started tackling crime outside the precinct. Now, rumors swirl that the FBI plans to take over the Major Crimes Unit for the duration of their investigation.

The FBI presence would make some criminals think twice, but he knows that won't be the case with the Joker, who would rise to the occasion of baiting a bigger fish. Also, Batman is bound to be on the top of their most-wanted list, which would complicate things.

The flashing lights of police cars catch his attention as he follows the curve of the river. He touches down on the roof of a rickety, five-floor walk up and watches as police officers swarm the building next door. From what he can see thanks to the enhanced visuals of his suit, the vacant apartment had been the victim of recent and heavy vandalism.

Batman tenses, the signature of the Joker clear in the grotesque black, red and white faces on the walls. The paint is still wet, dripping streaks down toward the floor, which is carpeted in playing cards. No need to guess the figure on the small pieces of cardboard.

The Joker's maniacal laugh rips through the night air. It echoes down the narrow alleys, seeming to come from all directions at once. Batman prepares to launch himself from the rooftop, but he pulls back at the last second, ducking out of sight when the lights in the apartment below switch on.

The resident steps out onto the fire escape to see what all the commotion is about. She stares for a long moment at the crime scene across the alley before twisting to look up above her, leaning back as far as the thin metal bars of the escape will allow. Batman retreats even further, and after a moment, takes off in the opposite direction, the Joker now long gone.

The close call on the rooftop reminds him of a question or two he wants to ask Alfred about Valencia Carter, like whether her hair is straight like he'd seen that afternoon in Fox's office, or curly like he'd just seen blowing over the edge of the fire escape of a fifth-floor walk up on the banks of the Gotham River.

* * *

><p><em><strong>Look back in silence. The cradle of your whole life,<br>**__**There in the distance, losing its greatest pride.  
><strong>__**Nothing is easy, nothing is sacred, why?  
><strong>__**Where did the bow break?  
><strong>__**It happened before your time.**_

_**And there were people there, lovely as you'd ever care, tonight.  
><strong>__**Baby, you can start again.  
><strong>__**Laughing in the open air, have yourself another dream, tonight.  
><strong>__**Maybe we can start again.**_

* * *

><p>It's strange, Bruce reflects as he removes the last pieces of his armor and relishes the feeling of the cool air hitting his bare skin. You know someone your entire life, and you still don't know everything about them.<p>

As he watches an unsuspecting Alfred treat a fresh batch of bruises, Bruce wonders what other secrets lie in the past of the man who helped raised him.

Like helping raise other fatherless children.

A rather comical vision of Alfred traipsing around Wayne Manor followed by singing orphans dances across Bruce's imagination, but the sting of antiseptic quickly brings him back to reality. He really needs to get more sleep.

"Who's Valencia Carter?"

He winces at the suddenness of the question, the gracelessness of his inquiry. The butler's motions stop only for a moment before he continues wrapping gauze around his charge's arm.

"Why do you ask?" the older man says in a carefully measured tone.

"Lucius had a file built around her, and when I asked, he said you knew her."

Bruce doesn't quite know what's stopping him from telling Alfred the whole truth, but he refrains from telling it anyway. Alfred sits, looking older and wearier than Bruce has ever seen him before.

"Do you want the long version or the short one?"

"Both," Bruce says honestly.

"The short version is that she's just another girl who grew up in Gotham, started out with promise and ended up with something less than happily ever after. The long version's a little more complicated, sir."

Bruce pulls out Fox's file and hands it silently to Alfred, who shakes his head as he thumbs through it.

"Now I know I'll have to tell you everything," he says, running his eye down a front-page story that ran six years ago in the _Gotham Gazette_. "I'd quite forgotten the media's version of events."

"So she wasn't a Gotham Prep prodigy who got caught up in the city's underworld of crime, drugs and murder?"

Alfred considers.

"Well, that's not _all _she was."

Bruce can't tell whether or not the older man is joking, but this comment does nothing to lessen his curiosity, something Alfred sees immediately.

"What would you like to know, Master Bruce?" he asks, not unkindly.

"How did you know her? Lucius said you helped raise her."

"In a way, I suppose I did. She grew up here."

"Here, in the Manor?" The memory of his brief meeting with her at Wayne Tower surfaces, the politely tolerant but loftily self-assured way she had addressed him. Was it because she had known him? "I don't…"

"I'm not sure you ever met her, though come to think of it, it's extraordinary you never did. It was… the year after your parents died when her mother came here. She was pregnant with Miss Valencia then. She'd been sent from London to stay here at Wayne Manor by her family's housekeeper, a cousin of mine. Her parents had kicked her out of their house for being with child. It was only supposed to be temporary, until they relented, but they never did."

Bruce thinks back to that tumultuous year after his parents had died, scouring his mind for any recollection of this.

"You were staying with the Kyles at Newport," Alfred reminds him gently, "so you'll forgive your old butler for taking on a new project while you were away. And since you were away often, Miss Valencia had the misfortune of being my project for the majority of her childhood."

"I hope she turned out easier to handle than I was at the time."

Alfred lets out a laugh. "Definitely not. You see it was quite obvious from a very young age that Miss Valencia was extraordinarily intelligent. They tested her repeatedly in the schools, called her a genius and allowed her to skip a couple grades. By the time she was ten, she was at Brentwood Academy."

Bruce shuffles through the file, spreading the papers over the table. "The elite elementary school here in the Palisades? Only the richest in Gotham can get their kids in… which is why my parents didn't send me there."

"You never met Miss Valencia's mother. She got her daughter everything she possibly could, and then some. I believe part of it was fueled by revenge. She wanted to make her own parents sorry for missing out on helping raise their grandchild. So Miss Valencia had all the lessons, played all the sports, attended all the parties her mother thought necessary for her upbringing. She personally never cared much for it all, but she seemed to bear her mother's enthusiasm for those things with a sort of… affectionately tempered condescension, shall we say? Her mother wanted her to be a prodigy, so she played the part as she did everything else—wonderfully. And it worked… for a while."

Something in Alfred's voice indicates that perhaps it wasn't only Valencia's mother who took pride in her achievements. Bruce is still having a hard time wrapping his head around this unknown part of Alfred's life, the years he'd spent rebelling at boarding school, getting expelled from Ivy League universities and avoiding home.

"Miss Valencia was able to get into Gotham Preparatory Academy on a Wayne Scholarship, which was started by your parents and funds the education of one outstanding student at Gotham Prep for four years," Alfred elaborates, seeing the blank look on Bruce's face. "I tried to talk her mother out of it. She was much too young, only 13, and she didn't have the advantages of her classmates, but it was too good a chance to pass up, so she went."

"And that's where she met him?" Bruce says, pulling a paperclipped photograph free.

Alfred nods. "He was a Wayne Scholar like her, but a couple of years ahead. The more she saw of him, the less we saw of her, and it frightened her mother. She even began to talk of withdrawing her from the school if she persisted in seeing him, but for the first time in her life Miss Valencia absolutely refused to do as her mother wished. So she stayed at Gotham Prep, and they became inseparable. They thought the world of each other, and everyone could see it wouldn't—couldn't—end well. They were too young, too... in love, if that's possible."

Bruce can't imagine the cool, collected Miss Carter being the dramatic heroine of a Romeo-and-Juliet-esque love affair, but yet… there _had_ been something almost haunting in her eyes when she'd looked out at the Gotham skyline.

"He wasn't a bad person, but he'd grown up with the wrong sort of people, starting with his father. There was an incident, a scandal that thrust them both into the spotlight. One day, Miss Valencia went to visit him in the Narrows where he lived, and she walked in on a fight between father and son. He ended up pulling a knife on his father and wounding him severely."

"So there was a trial," Bruce says, the articles he had read through slowly starting to fall in place.

"Exactly, and since the suspect and the main witness both Wayne Scholars, Wayne Enterprises' lawyers got involved, as it would be bad for business if he were convicted. Needless to say, he was cleared of all charges on the basis of self-defense, but they didn't stop there. To discredit his father, they unearthed all kinds of evidence: ties to drug rings and the black market, thousands of dollars of gambling debts. I don't know if any of it was true, but they fed the media a trumped up version of his life as a disadvantaged youth struggling to break free of the world of crime he had grown up in, and they absolutely loved it.

"And she got her share of the spotlight too." Bruce sifts through the papers and pulls out a few articles that declared Valencia Carter as 'the faithful girlfriend, who never left his side during the entire trial,' 'the maid's daughter on the verge of becoming the youngest graduate in the history of Gotham Prep,' 'the surprisingly beautiful, young talent poised to make Gotham City proud."

Alfred nods. "The company had been getting bad press, especially with you missing for three years at that point. Someone decided that their happiness would show Wayne Enterprises' philanthropic spirit hadn't died with your father, so the company was determined they live out a fairytale. But it all went wrong."

Bruce waits patiently for the last link that will connect the articles laid out on the counter in front of them and the last bundle still in the folder.

"The pressure placed on them was enormous, and they began to talk of leaving Gotham. Sometimes I wonder if things would have been better if I hadn't interfered, but I did. I told her mother, and she literally locked Miss Valencia in a room the night they planned to leave. Miss Valencia made herself sick crying and yelling, and we were forced to sedate her. We didn't hear from him again… until his body washed up on the riverbank three days later."

Alfred pulls out the last stack of articles himself. While the more reputable publications had run file photos of the couple, some of the more seedier ones had included pictures of Gotham police officers carrying out what was obviously a body bag on the banks of the Gotham River.

"The media picked up on this story that he had been addicted to drugs, that the attack was a result of a drug deal gone wrong. But that didn't make sense to those who knew they were planning to run away that night, and it didn't sit well either with Lucius, who had known him—"

"As an intern in Applied Science. He told me that."

Alfred shakes his head. "Lucius didn't tell you the whole story. He was still on the board then. Applied Science was just a division he oversaw. When the story came out, he came here and asked if I'd ever noticed any strange behavior that corroborated the media's story. That's how we became acquainted. We turned the house inside-out trying to find a hidden stash, a stray pill, anything. It was the same at his dormitory: There was nothing.

"Then Lucius came across a memo he wasn't supposed to see. The lawyers and other members of the board had fabricated the whole story to distance the company because the men who had attacked him were the same men they had used as scapegoats during the trial. When Lucius tried to expose what they had done, he was removed from the board and sent to Applied Science."

"And what happened to her?"

Alfred stares for a long moment at a cover of Gothamite Magazine from six years ago.

"They wanted to continue exploiting Miss Valencia, set her up as the innocent victim in all this, but she never gave them a chance. She somehow got her hands on the sleeping pills we'd given her the night she tried to run away. We barely got her to the hospital in time, and even then she very nearly died. Wayne Enterprises and the media decided to kill her in a very different way."

He hands the magazine cover to Bruce. It's a photo from a glitzy debutante ball, one of dozens that filled Gotham social calendars every year from spring until fall. The photographer had zoomed in on Valencia in the middle of a room full of pastels and tulle. Though her light mint green dress was by far the simplest, it perfectly complemented her red hair, which was glowing in the intimate dim lights of the ballroom.

The lights also twinkled off the crystal glass of champagne she held in her hand, one small detail that gave a whole new meaning to the bold words stamped in red across the page.

Gotham's Disappointment.

"Everyone drinks at those parties," Bruce says, having been roped into escorting a debutante or two in his time. "Otherwise, no one would go."

"Of course it was utterly ridiculous," Alfred says angrily, "but the media took their story and ran with it. They turned her suicide attempt into an accidental drug overdose. Her classmates came forward for their fifteen minutes of fame with stories of depraved parties full of alcohol and other illegal substances. Luckily, she was spared from having to confront it all. Her mother had her on a plane to London before she was fully recovered, and after a few weeks, Gotham forgot about her too."

* * *

><p><em><strong>Only the young can break away, break away,<br>**__**Lost when the wind blows, on your own.  
><strong>__**Oh, only the young can break away, break away,  
><strong>__**Lost when the wind blows, on your own.**_

_**Mother, it's cold here. Father, thy will be done.  
><strong>__**Thunder and lightning are crashing down.  
><strong>__**They got me on the run. Direct me to the sun.  
><strong>__**Redemption, keep my covers clean tonight.  
><strong>__**Maybe we can start again**_

_**Only the young can break away, break away,  
><strong>__**Lost when the wind blows, on your own.  
><strong>__**Oh, only the young can break away, break away,  
><strong>__**Lost when the wind blows, on your own.**_

* * *

><p>"Now, are you going to tell me the truth about why you wanted to know all about her?" the older man says shrewdly as he begins gathering up the papers scattered across the table.<p>

"I just hired Miss Carter as my secretary."

There's a moment of stunned silence. "You don't know how ridiculous that statement sounds."

"I think I have an idea already."

Alfred allows himself a small smile as they walk toward the lift. "Oh, you have no idea, Master Bruce," he says, shifting the gears into motion. "If anything remains of the Valencia Carter I knew, you're going to have a very difficult time looking for a reason to fire her… except maybe being too clever to be just your secretary."

"If what you're saying is true, she could move up easily within a few years. I could make sure of it, only…"

"Yes?"

Bruce smiles wryly. "I don't think she likes me much."

"She always hated you for not living in this house," Alfred says as they step out of the elevator and into the master bedroom. "She spent her childhood imagining she lived here, and I imagine she still harbors some ill will toward you. You were already working on your spoiled, ungrateful heir image even then."

"You should have given up on me then, Alfred."

"If I had, I wouldn't have all these stories about Batman to tell my grandchildren."

Bruce freezes. "You have grandchildren?"

The older man's voice fades as he walks down the hall toward his own room, but the amusement in it is quite clear. "No, I'm quite out of secrets tonight. Good night, Master Bruce."

"'Night, Alfred."

* * *

><p><em><strong>And the sun will shine again,<br>**__**And the sun will shine again.  
><strong>__**Are you looking for the sign,  
><strong>__**Or are you caught up in the lie?**_

_**Only the young can break away, break away,  
><strong>__**Lost when the wind blows, on your own.  
><strong>__**Oh, only the young can break away, break away,  
><strong>__**Lost when the wind blows, on your own.**_

_**Only the young can…  
><strong>__**Lost when the wind blows.  
><strong>__**Only the young can…  
><strong>__**Lost when the wind blows.  
><strong>_—"Only the Young" by Brandon Flowers

* * *

><p><em><strong>AN:**__ Please review!_


	4. The Secretary

_**Disclaimer:**_ _Unfortunately, nothing is mine except Valencia Carter and this silly little fairy tale._

* * *

><p><strong>GOTHAM'S CINDERELLA<br>****Chapter 4: The Secretary  
><strong>"_You're Bruce Wayne's _secretary_? My, how the mighty have fallen!"_

* * *

><p>Bruce groans when the bright summer sunlight suddenly streams into his previously dark bedroom. After a moment, he cracks open one eyelid. Alfred stands near the window, one hand balancing a tray of food, the other holding a bedsheet that had been serving as a temporary curtain.<p>

"I suggest, sir, that we start thinking a little more seriously about furniture," Alfred says, looking for a surface to place the tray on and finding none.

Bruce solves the butler's dilemma by taking the tray and beginning to devour the meal without further ceremony. When he reaches for a napkin, the butler holds out the latest issue of Gothamite Magazine instead. The cover is a two-day old picture of him stumbling out of his Lamborghini with two women after being pulled over by a cop.

"I know what you're going to say," Bruce begins, tossing the tabloid aside.

"You don't look drunk enough for the 1.8 blood-alcohol-content level that officer recorded," Alfred chides.

"I was still getting a handle on Lucius's new gadget, all right?" Bruce says good-humoredly. "I overshot it a little."

"The two young ladies—that is, their families—have called wondering what your plan of action is concerning the libelous defamation of their daughters' good names."

A small smirk appears as he reads the headline: _Fast Cars, Faster Women._

"I don't see anything libelous."

"Shall I send flowers with the message?"

"No, no," sighs Bruce, turning serious. "Just don't reply, and we'll see if they can take a hint."

"So I take it you're moving on, sir?"

"I was wrong about dating Gotham girls. I thought they'd take some of the spotlight and I'd have an easier time of it, but…"

"But such is the life of your typical, bored, billionaire bachelor," Alfred says, gathering the now empty dishes. "I suppose it will be back to importing European models and Russian ballerinas?"

Bruce raises his spinach shake in toast. "Try not to look too excited, Alfred."

Alfred harrumphs as he heads toward the door. "I'll be excited when we get some furniture in this house, sir," he deadpans. "I miss having things to dust."

"Actually, I was thinking of asking Miss Carter to help decorate the place," Bruce says. "A bored, billionaire bachelor like myself isn't going to spend his afternoons looking at curtain and carpet samples."

"You would trust her with that task?"

"If you were working closely with her."

"Master Bruce, while I appreciate your intention, if Miss Valencia wanted to spend time with the old butler, she knows where to find me. She clearly has moved on—"

"If she wanted to do that, she wouldn't have returned to Gotham," Bruce says with the conviction of someone who knows this from personal experience.

"What time shall I tell the office you'll be in this afternoon?" Alfred inquires, changing the subject.

Bruce isn't so easily deterred. "Everyone must be wondering why I remember to call in advance every time I decide to come in now. I guess she hasn't been the one to answer the phone yet?"

Alfred ignores Bruce's question. "They already must be wondering why Miss Valencia's lasted two months as your secretary without dating you."

"She's a very good secretary. Gets my coffee right every time."

"That's a shameful waste of talent." Alfred pauses. "Does she know that you know about her?" he asks curiously.

Bruce smiles slightly. "Miss Carter is professionalism personified. In other words, she's excellent at avoiding me."

"You're not the only one, sir."

* * *

><p><em><strong>It seems this boy's bathed in ridicule,<br>**__**Too forward, way too physical.  
><strong>__**It's time that I had another.  
><strong>__**I'm always wanting more, if there's another one.  
><strong>__**Give me some more, I'll have another one.  
><strong>__**I'll have a slice of your mother.**_

_**And this boy's so spectacular,  
><strong>__**Not a boy, but a wealthy bachelor.  
><strong>__**I want a car, I want a car.  
><strong>__**I want a car, I want a car.**_

* * *

><p>She's ashamed to admit it, but Valencia Carter doesn't mind being Bruce Wayne's secretary.<p>

The billionaire playboy is hardly demanding. As long as she has coffee waiting for him when he arrives and points him in the direction of that morning's (or afternoon's) meeting, she's done her job well. After the meeting, from which he always emerges looking as refreshed as if he's just woken from a nap (which she highly suspects is the case), she goes over the rest of the day's schedule… after asking politely whether or not he intends on staying at the office. They part ways at her desk, where a stack of files is always waiting for her, and he wanders away to do God knows what while she starts summarizing information so that Mr. Wayne can know everything about a file at one glance.

She can barely stand the other secretaries, pretty but mindless women who file their nails more often than they file paperwork. Their career goals consist entirely of a) catching the eye of an office boy long enough for a copy room tryst, b) catching the eye of an executive long enough to become his mistress or c) catching the eye of a _future_ executive long enough to become his wife… none of which are mutually exclusive. As to the workings of the company itself, they know nothing except that Mr. Wayne owns it and that, as his secretary, Valencia is their biggest threat by default.

It's the veterans who know the ins and outs of Wayne Enterprises far better than the executives themselves. The formidable Linda Page leads this tight-knit group of employees who made a career out of working at Wayne Tower instead of using it as a matchmaking service. So even though she's sick and tired of typing up memos, transcripts and meeting notes for the chief of staff, Valencia has a smile ready every time Linda stops at her desk with a towering pile of manila folders.

That afternoon, it's no surprise what's in store when she sees the older woman weaving between desks and cubicles, making as much of a beeline as she can for Valencia.

"You shouldn't have let on you can type eighty words per minute," Linda says in greeting, planting a stack of files in Valencia's inbox. "Who else am I supposed to go to in this office when Mr. Fox says he wants all this done by tomorrow afternoon?"

Linda drops her voice. "This is a little above the clearance of a two-month employee, but Mr. Fox needs all this information compiled by end of day tomorrow. None of these airheads have the mental or typing ability, and I don't have the time, so it's up to you, Miss Carter."

"I'll do my very best, Miss Page," she promises.

Linda leans back with a skeptical 'we'll see' expression. "Oh, and Mr. Wayne's driver just called," she adds. "He'll be arriving in about five minutes."

"Certainly. I'll go down straight away." Valencia unearths Bruce's schedule, which is blank except for a 'see Mr. Fox' note. She's tempted to rifle through the files Linda has just deposited on her desk to see if there's any connection, but the chief of staff is still watching her.

"You know, you've lasted longer than any other secretary Mr. Wayne has hired," Linda says thoughtfully as she follows Valencia out of the office.

"Oh, really?" Valencia feigns ignorance as she prepares a cup of coffee for her boss.

"You're not at all his type and he doesn't see how hard you work, but he never used to call in before and now he's done so consistently for the last two months."

"He comes in three times a week at most, so that's not that extraordinary," Valencia observes as she steps into an elevator.

Linda puts out a hand to stop the doors and tosses Valencia the latest issue of Gothamite Magazine, which she manages to catch despite holding a full cup of hot liquid in one hand and some files in the other. 'Fast Cars. Faster Women,' the cover proclaims, the words plastered across the picture of Bruce Wayne's much-talked-of DUI.

"They haven't lost their touch with headlines," Valencia muses.

"You would know all about that, wouldn't you?"

Valencia's eyes dart to Linda's face, trying to read the meaning in the older woman's expression. She sees nothing but pity, and she hates it.

"Listen, it must be hard being just a secretary now, but if you keep at it and don't let yourself fall prey to any of these sleazy execs, you could become something here." Linda stares for a long moment at Valencia. "Just something to think about for when Mr. Wayne finally comes around to propositioning you."

Valencia blinks. "But I'm not at all his type. You said so yourself."

"You're not, and I think that's what he likes about you."

Linda steps back and lets the elevator doors shut, leaving Valencia to think about what she said on the forty-floor ride down to the lobby.

* * *

><p><em><strong>I see losers losing everywhere.<br>**__**If I lose, I'll only lose the care  
><strong>__**That I might have for another.  
><strong>__**I am complete, invincible.  
><strong>__**If I have one principle,  
><strong>__**Then it's to stand on you, brother.**_

_**And this boy's so spectacular,  
><strong>__**Not a boy, but a wealthy bachelor.  
><strong>__**I want a car, I want a car.  
><strong>__**I want a car, I want a car.**_

* * *

><p>Valencia had been prepared to work for an arrogant prick who wouldn't think twice about being an ass to his employees and everyone else, but Bruce Wayne is almost completely the opposite. Oh, he's definitely arrogant, but he only has smiles and handshakes for everyone who gets a paycheck from him. In fact, she's only seen him be an ass to board member Charles Knight, who according to rumors had the gall to target Applied Science, Fox's pet department, during a budget meeting.<p>

And for all his napping during board meetings and leaving the running of the company up to Lucius Fox, she's seen him deep in conversation with Fox in his office, clearly understanding everything the CEO is throwing at him.

It would have been so much easier if he'd been an ass, Valencia reflects as she tucks the magazine out of sight and takes her post near the front doors.

"So I take it our lord and master will be gracing us with his presence shortly?"

Crispus Allen, a security guard who started working at Wayne Tower around the same time she did, pokes his head around the metal detector she's standing next to.

"He'll be here any minute now, so please make sure you have the gate ready," she says, looking pointedly at his partner, who oversaw the handicap-accessible entrance.

Clancy O'Hara, also a relative newcomer, whistles lowly. "Look who's getting all high and mighty working for the top dog."

"I'm just doing my job—"

"And you're doing it very well, Miss Carter," Bruce Wayne commends.

She whirls around, somehow not spilling any coffee on him. He looks perfect in a dark grey suit, lilac shirt and silver tie.

"Good afternoon, Mr. Wayne," she greets, as he gestures her ahead of him through the gate O'Hara is dutifully holding open. "How are you today?"

"Still feeling the effects of last night, unfortunately," he says, smiling iridescently. "The coffee is much appreciated."

If that's what a hangover looks like, she wants to know what he's been drinking.

"So what's on the agenda?" he asks as they walk toward the elevator.

"No scheduled meetings today—"

"You're an angel, Miss Carter."

"—but you're to see Mr. Fox at your earliest convenience, and I have two contracts here that need your sig—"

"And just exactly where were you last night, Bruce?"

A rich, low voice breaks into their conversation, and two devastating brunettes appear beside them. They tower nearly to Bruce'd height in to-die for pumps that scream designer, a different species from the discounted knock-offs of the secretaries upstairs. As they close in, their fresh-off-the-runway dresses skim sensually over their angular curves. O'Hara and Allen hover uncertainly, but Bruce waves them away.

"Long time no see, Tali, Lina," he drawls.

"Yeah, really long time," says the taller of the two sarcastically. She throws a magazine at him with such violence that her blue-black hair swings down from its luxurious coils on her shoulder.

Bruce's eyes barely flick over the magazine's cover. Valencia shifts her arm to make sure her copy is concealed.

"They didn't get your good side, did they, Tali?"

She lunges at him, but her friend merely steps between them. "Is that all you have to say about this, Bruce?" she asks imperiously. Her mane of brown-black hair shimmers as she moves but otherwise stays completely in place.

"Is there anything else that needs to be said?"

As if on cue, the elevator arrives. Bruce lets Valencia on before him and calmly presses the button for the 40th floor. He doesn't react when the other two women follow them into the car. Valencia motions for Allen and O'Hara to go up in the next car as a precaution.

"Bruce, this is a scandal!" Tali proclaims as soon as the doors close. "They can't print things like this about us!"

"Call it a scandal when they print things that aren't true," he says grimly.

For some reason, Valencia feels Bruce's gaze on her when he says this, but when she looks up, he's staring disinterestedly ahead at the elevator doors.

"I take it from your tone that you're not going to do anything about this," Lina says, her voice turning icier with each syllable. "If that's the case, then we're finished."

"Lina, we never really started," Bruce says carelessly as the elevator reaches the top floor.

Lina and Tali follow close on his heels, forcing Valencia to bring up the rear.

"Bruce, you and I _are _Gotham." Lina's controlled voice quavers for a split second at the contemplation of this power. "Think about what we would be capable of together."

"My Gotham isn't your Gotham, Lina," he replies in a low voice. "Now, if you'll excuse me, I have business to attend to."

Tali's derisive laughter cuts through the office chatter as Bruce opens the doors. The place goes deadly silent, everyone captivated by the entrance of the most-talked-of trio in the city.

"Business?" Tali repeats incredulously, her voice shrill. "Everyone knows you don't do a damn thing around here!"

"Did your father tell you that?"

"And then some," she declares triumphantly.

Valencia suddenly recognizes 'Tali' as Natalia Knight. She'd been blonde when they were at school together.

"Miss Page?"

The chief of staff snaps to attention. "Yes, Mr. Wayne?"

"Can you please call security and ask them to escort these two young ladies out?" he says in a confidential voice that carries throughout the room anyway.

A thrill runs through the audience of secretaries and office boys. Linda's hand falls limply on the telephone, but she doesn't pick up the receiver.

"Are… Are you quite sure, Mr. Wayne?" Linda asks, staring at the city's premier socialites, one a board member's daughter and the other a member of one of oldest and leading families in Gotham.

"On second thought, have them escort Miss Knight to her father's office. She can help him clear out."

This elicits a few shocked gasps. Linda looks helplessly from Bruce to Fox, who is standing in the doorway of his office.

Bruce picks up the phone on the desk nearest to him, and Natalia rushes forward wildly to stop him. Almost effortlessly, Lina reaches out and grasps Natalia's arm in a vice-like grip, detaining her.

"This is ridiculous," begins Lina, small patches of pink on her porcelain cheeks betraying her horror at being part of such a public display. "Bruce, is there somewhere else we can—?"

"I'm sorry, but I think Mr. Wayne's made it quite clear he doesn't wish to speak with you today… or any other day in the foreseeable future."

For a moment, Valencia thinks she's just going to ignore her, but that stops being an option when everyone's attention shifts to her, including Bruce Wayne's, who's looking at her in a way she can't quite understand.

Lina turns a perfect circle on her toes to face Valencia, a patient and condescending expression on her face.

"You must be new, so let me introduce myself," she says patronizingly. "I'm Selina Kyle."

Valencia knows the surname is supposed to instill fear and intimidate her, but she replies with the same degree of authority.

"And I'm Valencia Carter."

A nervous giggle, quickly stifled, escapes one of the office boys. Selina, however, looks far from amused.

"Valley Carter?" She takes her time observing Valencia's sensible attire, her eyes dragging over a simple cream top with modest ruffles at the neckline, a brown, knee-length flared skirt, and a pair of burgundy flats.

Selina draws herself up, heightening the contrast between Valencia's and her own outfit, which is all sleek lines and structure. "You're Bruce Wayne's_ secretary_? My, how the mighty have fallen!"

Confused whispers spread like wildfire through the captive audience, but the former classmates continue to stare at each other unblinkingly. Valencia's nails are digging into her palm hard enough to draw blood, but she refuses to lose her cool.

"Indeed," she agrees. "Guards?"

O'Hara and Allen step in and advance uncertainly toward Natalia and Selina.

"Please escort out Miss Knight and Miss Kyle as Mr. Wayne requested," Valencia says firmly. "Mr. Knight's office is on the 38th floor."

A sobbing Natalia blindly follows O'Hara's guidance, but Selina stands her ground unyieldingly. Allen falters at the icy look she shoots him when he reaches out to touch her.

"You win this round, Carter," Selina concedes, looming over Valencia as she passes. "But don't think this is over. _When_ Bruce fires you, I'll make sure you never get hired in this city again."

Valencia murmurs something softly, and the reaction is explosive. Selina raises her hand to slap her, and even though Allen is standing closest to the pair, inexplicably it is Bruce who captures Selina's wrist. He forces her hand down and thrusts her none-too-gently toward Allen, all the while still staring at Valencia, a strange light in his eyes.

The drama finished, animation slowly returns to the workplace. Valencia is left standing in front of Bruce, who still has the same indecipherable expression on his face.

"I'm so sorry, sir," she says, looking in the vicinity of his knees. "I was completely out of line, and I understand if—"

"Don't even think about it," he assures her as they walk slowly together toward her desk. "And don't worry about Lina's threat either. As long as I'm around, you'll have a job at Wayne Enterprises."

It's not just empty sentiment. There's something behind his words, something that makes her look up at him curiously, something that's making him smile down at her kindly… almost knowingly.

"These contracts need to be signed," she says softly, thankful for a legitimate reason to break eye contact with him.

He peers over her shoulder as she summarizes the content of the legal documents, effectively trapping her between his body and her desk. She tries to sidestep and finds her exit sealed off by a filing cabinet. All the pens seem to have disappeared when it's time for him to sign. She manages not to jump when he snakes his arm around to pluck the pen she'd forgotten behind her ear.

"What was it you said to her?" he asks casually as he scrawls his signature on the line. His voice is low, but they're standing close enough to one another that she hears him quite clearly.

When she doesn't answer, he cranes his neck to look down at her. A mysterious smile graces her lips.

"Do I even want to know?" he asks, even lower.

Linda's voice breaks in opportunely. "Mr. Wayne, Mr. Fox would like to see you." She's looking at the pair of them disapprovingly.

"Sure thing, Linda." He tucks the pen behind her ear again, the tips of his fingers brushing against the sensitive skin behind her ear, sending shivers down her spine. "Excellent work today, Miss Carter, as always," he says with a devastating smile, before disappearing into Fox's office.

* * *

><p><em><strong>If I like cocaine, I'm racing you<br>**__**For organic fresh echinacea.  
><strong>__**One kick's as good as another.  
><strong>__**If I'm tired, I'm tired of telling you  
><strong>__**I'm never tired, I'm always better than you.  
><strong>__**Bye-bye, boy, run to your mother**_

_**And this boy's so spectacular,  
><strong>__**Not a boy, but a wealthy bachelor.  
><strong>__**Oh, yes, I am spectacular,  
><strong>__**Not a boy, but a wealthy bachelor.  
><strong>__**I want a car, I want a car.  
><strong>__**I want a car, I want a car.  
><strong>_—"This Boy" by Franz Ferdinand

* * *

><p><em><strong>AN:**__ Please review!_


	5. The Dinner

_**Disclaimer:**_ _Unfortunately, nothing is mine except Valencia Carter and this silly little fairy tale._

* * *

><p><strong>GOTHAM'S CINDERELLA<br>****Chapter 5: The Dinner  
><strong>_"Would you care to have dinner with me?" he clarifies._

* * *

><p>Night has fallen on Gotham City. Working in the small circle of light coming from her desk lamp, Valencia is elbow-deep in paperwork. She's been working non-stop on the report for six hours now, but she hardly notices. The sensitive content of the documents all center around Applied Sciences. She knows she's not supposed to understand all the technical jargon, but she can't help but be intrigued at the descriptions of the prototypes sucking hundreds of thousands of dollars from Wayne Enterprises' well-lined coffers.<p>

One particular prototype, some sort of military vehicle, catches her attention because of the lack of documentation on it. There's no photograph or schematic, and even the written description is vague despite the fact that it cost nearly $3 million to produce. She attempts to access the file through the company database, but like her previous attempts, her access is denied.

She sighs. Without the proper clearance, there's no point in staying at the office, so she decides ot call it a night. Her bag bulges alarmingly as she stuffs it full of files.

"You're lucky Wayne didn't fire your ass today, Carter."

She tolerates O'Hara's reproving gaze as she closes the distance between them. He mockingly bows her out the door and toward the elevator.

"O'Hara, you're so paranoid and nervous, one would never think you were a—"

"Not all of us can be just secretaries all the time," he shoots back.

She punches the elevator button a little harder than necessary. "You do have access to the basement, don't you?" she asks sharply.

"Of course, but—"

"Good."

The elevator comes to a halt at the basement, but the doors remain shut. They engage in a long staring contest, at the end of which O'Hara reluctantly swipes his security card. The doors slide open, and Valencia takes a few steps into the darkness, the lights switching on after sensing the motion. The security guard's mouth drops open as he gets his first glimpse of Applied Sciences.

"Hadn't and'tyou better get back to your post?" she asks archly.

"Yeah…" he says unconvincingly. "Don't get caught," he warns. "That'll be both our jobs on the line, and that's more than you and I are worth."

Valencia walks down an aisle formed between industrial crates and metal containers of various shapes and sizes. The layout is still the same as she remembers, but the aisles are narrower and the warehouse more crowded than six years ago. She experiments with trying to open one container, but the small screen that flashes to life at her touch asks for a numeric password and fingerprint.

She spots a computer and weaves her way over. She stops short in her tracks, the punch of memory hitting her right in the gut; this had been her boyfriend's workstation. She approaches slowly, remembering how he would be so engrossed on whatever new project he was working on that she'd be able to sneak right up to him when she visited. She used to stay for hours while he explained the technical aspects of each prototype to her.

The computer screen comes to life when she switches it on, showing her the department database. She brings up the search page and types in the file number of the military vehicle. The search engine thinks for a moment before pulling up a host of related files, including a detailed schematic—

"Miss Carter?"

She whirls around, knocking over the chair. Her heart is fairly beating out of her chest as a wave of adrenaline rushes through her body.

Slowly, she remembers how to breathe and offers Fox a shaky smile. "I didn't think anyone would be here."

"Neither did I," he says, helping her pick up the chair. "Was there a particular reason you were down here?" His face remains perfectly neutral, but she sees his eyes flick over the screen.

"I'm working on compiling a report for Miss Page," she explains. "She said you needed it done by tomorrow afternoon, but I didn't have the proper clearance so I decided to try my luck down here."

"I won't be needing that report anymore," Fox says, reaching over to shut down the computer. "As Mr. Knight is no longer a board member, Applied Sciences is safe from any cuts… at least until the next budget meeting."

He begins walking away, and she has no choice but to follow.

"I'm sorry," she apologizes. "I shouldn't have come down here… but I also wanted to see if it had changed," she adds.

Fox is silent for a moment. "He was the best intern that ever came through here," he says finally. "I practically guaranteed him a job after graduation."

"He always spoke very highly of you," she says in a slightly strained voice. "He admired what you did, not just as a scientist but how you ran the department and how you helped run the company."

Fox nods. "His talents would have been wasted crunching numbers and sketching diagrams. I've no doubt he would have worked himself up to administration within a few years."

They enter the elevator together, leaving Applied Sciences in darkness behind them.

"I never got to thank you for trying to clear his name. You believed in him when everyone else wouldn't, and I know what it cost you."

"Miss Carter, you can thank me by telling me when you get tired of playing secretary for Mr. Wayne and letting me find you a proper position at this company."

She stares ahead at the elevator doors, blinking rapidly, but she regains her composure by the time the doors slide open.

"Mr. Fox, I…"

He holds up a hand to stop her. "Just let me know, Miss Carter. I'll wait."

* * *

><p><em><strong>Shadows all around you as you surface from the dark,<br>**__**Emerging from the gentle grip of night's unfolding arms.  
><strong>__**Darkness, darkness everywhere, do you feel alone?  
><strong>__**The subtle grace of gravity, the heavy weight of stone.**_

* * *

><p>It's raining, of course, and of course she doesn't have an umbrella.<p>

It takes her a moment to realize she remains dry long after she walks past the shelter of Wayne Tower. She looks up and recognizes the underside of an umbrella, held by none other than Bruce Wayne himself.

"Good evening, Miss Carter. I don't remember asking you to work late."

"I was working on something for Miss Page," she says, looking at him confusedly. "Did you… need something from the office?"

"My secretary." She blinks. "And it seems my secretary needs her dinner." He presses the remote on his keys, and the headlights of the Lamborghini parked at the curbside flash twice in response. "Would you care to have dinner with me?" he clarifies.

"Mr. Wayne, I'm not quite sure that would be proper—"

"It wouldn't be," he answers. "And there's a good chance your name and face will end up on the front page of all the Gotham tabloids tomorrow, but I promise to be on my best behavior."

"Unfortunately, from what I've heard and read in said tabloids, your 'best behavior' is not a very comforting promise," she replies, without missing a beat.

"Surely you're not afraid of a little bad publicity?"

This forces a laugh from Valencia. "Mr. Wayne, you don't know anything about me, do you?"

"Oh, I know a little more than you might think."

"And you still want to have dinner with me?" she asks in surprise.

"I'm starving."

Valencia looks away thoughtfully. The rain is seeping into her flats, and one elbow is already drenched. She can see an open-mouthed O'Hara staring at them from the lobby. She knows she shouldn't. She's not dressed properly, she doesn't want the publicity and God knows Selina Kyle will settle for nothing less than her head on a platter if she accepts his invitation.

"All right, then."

He smiles brightly as he guides her to his car, sacrificing the shoulders of his Armani suit to keep her dry. The Lamborghini's doors fly up and open, and she obligingly slides into the black leather interior. There's no backseat to put her bag on in the stylish sports car, so she tucks it beside her feet instead, hoping the rain hasn't damaged any of the files. She's wondering what he's going to do with his umbrella when he hands it off to a woman and her son as he passes the miserable-looking pair on his way around the car. She pretends not to have noticed as he slides in beside her, but she allows herself a small smile as she looks out the window.

"Ever been to Fox Gardens?" he asks, revving up the car.

"Not recently," she answers truthfully. Valencia can't resist giving O'Hara a little wave as they pull away from the curb and zoom off down the street.

If he's disappointed she's been there before, he doesn't show it. The famed restaurant is just a few blocks away. It's a place to see and be seen for the city's elite, the only people who can afford what's on its menu. Every table is booked three months in advance, but somehow she doesn't think that will be an issue for Gotham's prince.

An unheard of fifteen minutes later, Bruce and Valencia are looking at each over a cluster of flickering tea lights as they wait for their food to be served. The Gotham skyline, framed in the window beside them, forms the backdrop for their dinner. She takes a sip of wine, but his glass remains untouched.

"So is this the part where I'm supposed to start flirting with you?" she asks.

Bruce leans in conspiratorially. "That's what they're all expecting," he says in a low voice, amusement and a hint of challenge in his eyes.

By 'they' he means all the other diners, their identities obscured by the shadows of the artful lighting. The only thing that gives away their presence is the dull clink of silverware against china and the soft murmur of conversation… whispers that had stopped momentarily when they walked into the restaurant.

Sitting across from him in the intimate setting, Valencia can see why it's easy to fall in love with Bruce Wayne. He's got a dangerous way of looking at you that makes you feel like you hold his entire attention, an intense way of gazing into your eyes that makes it seem like he's attempting to peer into the depths of your soul.

It's also a clever way to make a girl so self-conscious she's driven to distraction, a sly trick to deflect attention from himself while drawing it to him at the same time.

She leans back in her seat. "Well, I'm always one to disappoint, Mr. Wayne. Shouldn't you know?"

"Miss Carter, I didn't find out about you like everyone else—"

"Not from six-year-old tabloids and magazines, then?"

"Not _just_ from them, no," he admits. "You see, there's this old man who works at my house." She freezes, the glass of wine halfway to her lips. "He's been working for my family for as long as I can remember." She takes a large gulp of the red liquid. "Even when I wasn't here, even when everyone thought I was dead, he never gave up on me… as I'm sure you know."

She drains her glass and sets it to the side for a refill. "I don't think Alfred would appreciate being called an 'old man,'" she says quietly, clasping her hands in her lap.

They're both silent as their food arrives and the waiter refills Valencia's glass. She takes another generous sip as Bruce unfolds his napkin and tosses it carelessly, gracefully into his lap.

"How is he?" she asks, staring down at her food, appetite suddenly gone. "Is he—is he… well?" She looks up when he doesn't answer immediately. Her eyes are asking so much more.

"He'll probably outlive us all," Bruce says kindly. "He's been trying to get a hold of you at the office. He was… surprised when I told him you were my secretary."

She smiles bitterly. "Don't you mean disappointed?"

She can feel the sadness seeping into her smile, so she turns her head to look out the window. She can see him looking at her reflection in the glass.

"No, I don't think so," Bruce says sincerely.

"Is that why you brought me here? To talk about Alfred?" she asks flippantly, taking another sip of wine. She's blinking rapidly, but he pretends not to notice.

"Not exactly. I have a proposition for you. Not that kind," he adds, when she raises her eyebrows. "My house has been finished for about two months now, but I haven't had the chance to furnish it yet. Would you like to do it?"

She narrows her eyes, trying to find the ulterior motive in his offer. "Do you always proposition your secretaries like this?" she asks.

He smirks. "Proposition? Yes. Like this? No. None of my secretaries grew up in the same house as I did. This is a business offer, and you'd get a raise," he adds helpfully.

"This isn't some ruse you use to lure innocent secretaries out into the Palisades?"

"Believe me, none of my secretaries have been innocent. And you'll be working with Alfred, not me."

She begins eating to buy herself time. Trying not to look too amused, Bruce busies himself with the same task. Several minutes slip by in pensive silence. There's a dangerous plan swirling in Bruce's head. Alfred might kill him for even thinking it, but she's too good a chance to pass up.

"It's deceptively beautiful, isn't it?" she asks, breaking into his thoughts. She nods at the cityscape laid out before them. "This city?" she clarifies, since he's still looking intently at her.

"Or beautifully deceptive," he suggests.

"You don't have a very high opinion of the city that's given you everything, Mr. Wayne."

"It's taken a lot from me, too, Miss Carter."

"Then why come back?" she asks. There's a spark of curiosity in her eyes despite the accusatory tone. "You were never here, even before you disappeared. Every break, Alfred would wait to see if you would come back, and every time, you went off somewhere else… anywhere else. So why did you decide to come back after all those years?"

"I could ask you the same thing, but we both know the answer already," he says coolly. "Gotham will always be something no other place could ever be, no matter how long you're away."

After a long moment, she nods reluctantly. She hates that he understands, but she agrees with every superlative in his statement. She shrugs helplessly. "It's home. No matter how much it hurts, there's no place like it."

He smiles brilliantly, glad they're on the same page. "So how about it, Miss Carter? Will you be my interior designer extraordinaire?"

"What if I say yes?"

"Then Alfred will stop sticking paint samples in my cereal."

She knows she shouldn't. She's asking for trouble and more complications, she doesn't trust herself going back to Wayne Manor and to Alfred, and her supervisor will settle for nothing less than her head on a platter if she accepts his proposition.

"All right, then."

* * *

><p><em><strong>You don't see what you possess, a beauty calm and clear.<br>**__**It floods the sky and blurs the darkness like a chandelier.  
><strong>__**All the light that you possess is skewed by lakes and seas.  
><strong>__**The shattered surface, so imperfect, is all that you believe.**_

* * *

><p>She tries to persuade him to let her take a taxi home, but he insists on driving her himself.<p>

"If you drive this car down my street, I can't guarantee it will be yours for long," she warns.

He frowns. "Let me know how much of a raise you'll need to find a place on the safer side of town." Bruce purposely makes a wrong turn. "Which one is it?" he asks, feigning ignorance.

"That's my building."

"This one?" The high-rise they're passing isn't the same one he'd seen her in.

"That's my building!" The hint of hysteria in cool Miss Carter's voice tells Bruce something is very wrong. In the rearview mirror, he sees a fading column of smoke rising a block and a half away.

She's running down the street before he can stop her, so he throws the gear shift in reverse and backs up until he reaches a barricade of emergency vehicles.

"Miss, you can't go up there," Bruce hears the officer telling Valencia as she attempts to cross the police line. He doesn't hear her reply, but the next second she's running across the street and into her building. He moves to follow.

"Just who do you think you are, buddy?" the cop demands, barring his way.

"Hey, that's Bruce Wayne!"

The yell comes from the line of news trucks parked on the side of the street, leading cameramen to swing their lenses in his direction. Bruce takes advantage of the officer's surprise to slip past him.

The rickety, wooden stairwell is still smoky. Valencia stands at the top, staring numbly at the charred remains of her apartment. Commissioner Gordon emerges from an inner room.

"Jim!" Valencia exclaims. Bruce freezes halfway up the last flight, stunned that she knows Gordon. "What happened here?"

"Miss Carter…" Gordon catches sight of Bruce and he raises his eyebrows, eyes flickering between Valencia and Bruce curiously. "You remembered me," he says to her, though he's still looking oddly at Bruce.

"Yes, of course," she says distractedly, taking in the destruction of her belongings. "How did this happen?" she asks faintly.

"It was arson," Gordon says grimly. "Can you think of anyone who would have a reason to do this, Miss Carter?"

Valencia and Bruce lock eyes. Despite the situation, there's a hint of amusement in her expression. "She wouldn't," Valencia sighs, answering the unspoken question. "Selina prefers her revenge with an audience, not here, not like this."

Bruce nods in agreement as he steps into the apartment, poking around curiously.

"Did you have anything someone else would have wanted to get their hands on? Anything expensive or files or anything?"

"No, nothing—"

They both turn at the sound of a picture being taken. Bruce tucks his phone back into his pocket.

"I'll have someone look into this for you, Miss Carter," he promises.

"We're perfectly capable of handling this investigation, Mr. Wayne," Gordon says. "Miss Carter, is there anywhere one of my officers can take you tonight? Somewhere safe until we're sure this wasn't a targeted crime?"

"A hotel will be—"

"Don't worry about Miss Carter, commissioner," Bruce breaks in. "I'll see to it she has a safe place to stay."

"Mr. Wayne, I don't want to inconvenience—"

Bruce drops his voice. "Alfred will never let me hear the end of it if you don't come back to the Manor with me tonight."

"All right," Valencia agrees, suddenly too tired to argue with or outwit Bruce. "It's fine," she adds, when Gordon opens his mouth to object.

"Here's my number, Miss Carter, in case you remember anything… or need anything," Gordon says, handing her a slip of paper. There's a bit of a warning in the glance he gives Bruce.

"Thanks, Jim."

"How do you know Commissioner Gordon?" Bruce asks casually as they walk to his car.

The officers try to keep the media back, but they seem to press in from all sides. Valencia is thankful for the darkly tinted windows of the Lamborghini.

"He was in charge of the investigation on my boyfriend's death," she says, trying to control her shivering. Bruce turns up the heat in the car, but when that seems to have little effect, he shrugs out of his suit jacket and wraps it around her shoulders. She looks at him questioningly.

"That's what Gordon did for me when I was waiting in his office the night my parents died," Bruce says, trying not to hit any photographers as he eases his car down the street.

She smiles sadly. "It seems we have a lot more in common than I thought, Mr. Wayne."

He thinks of the piece of evidence tucked away in the breast pocket of his suit. "Yes, Miss Carter, we do."

* * *

><p><em><strong>I will bring a mirror, so silver, so exact,<br>**__**So precise and so pristine, a perfect pane of glass.  
><strong>__**I will set the mirror up to face the blackened sky.  
><strong>__**You will see your beauty every morning that you rise.  
><strong>_—"You are the Moon" by The Hush Sound

* * *

><p><em><strong>AN: **__Please review!_


	6. The Batman

_**Disclaimer:**_ _Unfortunately, nothing is mine except Valencia Carter and this silly little fairy tale._

* * *

><p><strong>GOTHAM'S CINDERELLA<br>****Chapter 6: The Batman  
><strong>"_What are you trying to tell me that you aren't telling me?"_

* * *

><p>As Bruce expertly maneuvers his car up the drive, not touching the brakes as they pass through the opening gates, he glances at Valencia and wishes he hadn't. There's an odd, yearning look on her face as she gazes up at the Manor, a strange mix of peace and pain. Wrapped up in his jacket, she looks incredibly young and vulnerable, hardly recognizable as the woman who had made the famously unflappable Selina Kyle lose her cool in front of fifty people.<p>

Bruce brings the car to a halt a little more forcefully than necessary. He knows he shouldn't have rushed forward to stop Selina from slapping Valencia that afternoon. He had moved too quickly, too agilely. If the scene hadn't been so dramatic already, his movements surely would have caught someone's attention, and even an office boy whispering about Bruce Wayne's lightning reflexes could be dangerous. It _had_ been a reflex, a reaction he barely would have been able to control under the circumstances. The alternative would be that he's developing a distressing tendency to feel fiercely protective of his secretary.

He switches off the engine, and complete silence descends upon them as they stare out the windshield at the newly built replica of their childhood home. The few lights installed in the mansion have all been turned on, suffusing the building in light that spills through the uncurtained windows and onto the gravel drive in elongated rectangles. Bruce has a strong feeling his all-knowing butler is about to prove his omniscience once again.

"So the building you were going to pull down brick for brick, you ended up rebuilding brick for brick instead," she observes quietly.

He turns slowly to look at her, the words he'd spoken in anger years ago coming back to him like a bad memory. She bears his gaze with a small smile, but doesn't look at him.

"I was hiding under the staircase the day you said that to Alfred. You have no idea how much I hated you from that day on."

The playboy in him can't resist leaning over the console, making the already cozy space in the car seem even cozier. "Do you still hate me?" he asks in a low voice.

He doesn't realize he wants a truthful answer until she doesn't give him one. She only smiles vaguely as she gets out of the car. (He'd counted on her having more difficulty figuring out how to open the Lamborghini's doors. Taking her bulging bag in hand, she leaves him to hurry after her. Luckily, she takes two steps for every one of his and they both reach the front door at the same time.

"You know, I paid the architects an obscene amount of money to make sure every detail was faithful to the original," Bruce says, surveying the varnished woodwork of the front door. "If they did their job right, that key around your neck should still be able to open this door."

It's her turn to be shocked, but only a slight widening of her eyes gives it away. She pulls at the silver chain at her neck until the object hanging off it comes free. It's a skeleton key, one that would open any door in the manor. Alfred had carried his copy for as long as Bruce can remember, and his mother had had one too, but unlike the dull, practical metal of those keys, Valencia's copy is made of flawless platinum. The key's delicate, intricate design includes a cursive W and M stacked on top of one another to create a mirror image, and using the same lines, a V and a C are made prominent by tiny diamonds embedded in the shining metal.

"Isn't it ridiculous?" she asks, slipping the chain off and weighing the piece of jewelry in the palm of her hand. "Why ever would a maid's daughter need something like this?"

"So she could come back home whenever she likes, I suppose," he says solemnly.

She stares at him for a long moment, and even though he feels as if she's trying to look past his playboy persona—and succeeding—he bears her gaze unflinchingly. Without breaking eye contact, he reaches out to take her hand and guides it to the lock. The key turns effortlessly, and the door swings inward.

Their hands fall apart without ceremony. The shuffle of her flats echo in the starkly empty hall of uncarpeted marble and uncovered glass as she takes a turn around the room. She stops in the middle of the hall to survey the crystal chandelier suspended from the ceiling, the only adornment in place.

"It's an exact replica," Bruce offers, as if to make up for the lack of everything else. He wonders if it's by coincidence or by design that she's stopped to stand exactly where the chandelier's shadow falls across her face.

He suspects the only thing keeping her from throwing out her arms and spinning in circles underneath the chandelier is his presence. He and Rachel used to do the same thing, once upon a time, spin and spin until they were thoroughly dizzy then try to walk it off, laughing over their drunken movements.

"We can do it, you know," he says suddenly, joining her under the chandelier. "There's nothing to bump into or break."

From the way she's looking at him, half amused and half amazed, he knows that she gets exactly what he's talking about.

"I always preferred sliding down the banisters," she says, not breaking eye contact. Again, there's that hint of challenge that he can't help but answer.

"On Thursdays?" he replies. "Right after it's waxed?"

"Of course, what other day would you do it?" she says, keeping up the easy rhythm of their banter. "Ever gone into the caves by the southeast foundation—?"

"Am I going to have to listen to both of you run through your catalog of childhood misdemeanors?"

Valencia drops her bag, the sound of it hitting the floor echoing loudly in the empty hall. She whirls around, causing Bruce's jacket to fall from her shoulders. Bruce catches the forgotten garment easily as his secretary, the cool, calm, collected Miss Carter, transforms into the little girl who had twirled under chandeliers and slid down banisters not so long ago. Flying to close the distance between them, she throws her arms around Alfred.

Alfred chuckles as he takes a step back to keep them from topping over. "It's about time you came home, my dearest girl."

Alfred is every bit as Valencia remembers him, and she wants nothing more than to be five, nine, thirteen, sixteen years old again, with him as her greatest confidante, an unending source of wisdom, comfort and consolation. She doesn't know which is more horrifying: the fact that she has an overwhelming urge to burst into tears, or that she's about two seconds away from telling him everything that's happened to her since she left Gotham.

"_What_ have you done with your hair, Miss Valencia?" Alfred demands, holding her at arm's length and surveying her critically.

"Ah, so it is curly, then," Bruce surmises quietly.

He's halfway up the stairs, looking like a magazine ad in his shirtsleeves, with his jacket folded carelessly over one arm. He's a flawless reminder that even as they stand in a carbon copy of the house they both grew up in, even if they've shared some sort of a tragic past, he's just a billionaire playboy in impeccably tailored clothes. Yet sometimes, she would swear there is something else, something _more_ behind the playful teasing and careless grace, glimpses of something promising, always quickly snatched away.

"Miss Carter will be staying the night," Bruce informs Alfred. "Shall I put her up in your room?" he asks, indicating the forgotten bag he now holds. "Alfred can take my bed for tonight," Bruce assures her when she opens her mouth to protest. "Unless _you'd_ prefer…?" Risking Alfred's disapproval, he trails off suggestively.

"As it's Master Bruce's fault we don't have furniture in the guest room, it's only right that he sleeps on the floor tonight," Alfred puts in.

"No, I was thinking I'd look for that cave by the southeast foundations and camp out there," Bruce retorts, masking the truth behind a joke.

Alfred coughs. "Right, Master Bruce, you make yourself scarce and I will make Miss Valencia a cup of hot chocolate," he says decisively, glaring at Bruce over Valencia's head as he turns her in the direction of the kitchen.

Bruce gives him a significant look as he hurries up the rest of the stairs and toward the bat-infested cave turned high-tech headquarters, nestled in the southeast foundations of Wayne Manor.

* * *

><p><em><strong>You sit there in your heartache,<br>**__**Waiting on some beautiful boy to,  
><strong>__**To save you from your old ways.  
><strong>__**You play forgiveness. Watch it now, here he comes.**_

_**He doesn't look a thing like Jesus,  
><strong>__**But he talks like a gentleman,  
><strong>__**Like you imagined when you were young.**_

_****__**Can we climb this mountain? I don't know.  
><strong>__**Higher now than ever before,  
><strong>__**I know we can make it if we take it slow.  
><strong>__**That's thinking easy. Easy now, watch it go.**_

_**We're burning down the highway skyline  
><strong>__**On the back of a hurricane that started turning  
><strong>__**When you were young, when you were young.**_

* * *

><p>Valencia takes her time sipping her hot chocolate, trying to put off the interrogation she knows is coming.<p>

"I hope you didn't lose anything terribly important in the fire," Alfred begins. "Wayne Enterprises' insurance policy is very generous—"

"You mean Bruce Wayne wouldn't even blink to replace everything I lost…in designer," she interprets. She waves the offer aside. "Everything important is back in England with Mama. Mr. Wayne already pays me a ridiculous salary for a secretary, and I'm sure he'll give me an even more ridiculous raise to furnish the manor—yes, I said I'd do it," she says, interrupting herself at the surprised look on his face. She smiles ruefully. "How could I resist? Somewhere, my 12-year-old self is jumping for joy."

"And your 22-year-old self?"

Her smile fades. "What do you want me to say, Alfred?" she asks, almost pleadingly. "Nothing worked out the way we planned, yet somehow I survived, and now I'm… Bruce Wayne's secretary." She laughs humorlessly. "God, can you imagine it, Alfred! Bruce Wayne's _secretary_."

"I admit, my dear, I hardly believed Master Bruce until I saw you here tonight. If he'd told me you were the new head of Applied Sciences, it would have been more believable."

"It's funny how tragic life works out, isn't it? That's not what I want to do anymore. Not without him."

Alfred smiles sadly. "Then, what do you want to do, my dear? Twenty-two is much too young to settle for anything less than you want, especially for someone of your talents, Miss Valencia."

"Sometimes I think Valencia Carter was just a myth, something made up by the tabloids," she says quietly. "It's a role I enjoyed playing, but what really was the point of it, Alfred? Did Mama really think I was going to marry someone like—I don't know—like Bruce Wayne, and live happily ever after as queen of Gotham? This city was never going to accept me as that."

"I think she just wants you to live happily ever after, period," Alfred says gently.

"You should see her in London. You wouldn't know we'd moved to another continent from the way everything's the same, only she's switched to plotting to make me queen of England." She laughs to hide the fact that she's blinking back tears. "I'm sorry we just ran away like that, Alfred. If I'd cared what was happening at the time, I would have fought to stay."

He pats the back of her hand comfortingly. "Your mother was right to take you away… and I was very wrong to have tried to interfere when you were planning to leave with—"

Valencia's eyes flash almost angrily. "That doesn't even bear thinking about, Alfred," she says severely. "Don't you dare blame yourself for that. I never, _ever_ thought of it that way. If it was anyone's fault, it was this city's."

He can't help but smile at her vehemence, but he still looks troubled. "Then why did you return, Miss Valencia?" he asks delicately.

Valencia doesn't answer him immediately. When she finally looks at him, he sees a familiar light of ambition shining in her eyes, and it fills him with dread.

"Alfred, you've worked for Bruce Wayne for years. Have you—or anyone for that matter—ever expected _anything_ from the man who's been given everything?" she asks earnestly. "His company has made billions out of this city, and Wayne Enterprises is the biggest employer in Gotham, yet he hasn't used that influence to do anything to fix this city. He could do _so_ much, change this place for the better, if maybe he were pushed in the right direction. This city could be saved if someone with the right amount of power and resources were to do something."

Alfred bites back an unwise defense of his charge, who is most probably suiting up to fix the city literally as they speak. "I hope that's not why you returned to Gotham, my dear," he jokes, trying to steer the conversation into less dangerous waters, "to try to save it."

She isn't deterred. "The one thing I always believed in, because _he _believed in it, was that Gotham City could be so much more if it could just break free of the stupid, silly system that keeps the same families at the top and the same people at the bottom. This city is _beautiful_, but some people just want to keep that all that beuaty to themselves. It should belong to everyone."

"You're serious." Alfred's eyes widen as he realizes what she's heading for. "You became Master Bruce's secretary to try to get him to take up your cause?"

She feels her cheeks burn as they attempt to turn the same color as her hair. She knows it sounds ridiculous. "Partly… yes. Maybe."

It doesn't all add up. Alfred looks at her intently, fixing his piercing gaze on her. "What are you trying to tell me that you aren't telling me?"

Valencia wishes the butler didn't know her so well, but she would have been disappointed if he hadn't been suspicious. Whatever she's about to say, however, is cut off by a loud crash that reverberates suddenly through the house, the unmistakable sound of something heavy and metal hitting something equally solid.

"_What_ was that?"

"Er—that was probably Master Bruce fiddling with one of his cars."

"By crashing it into the southeast foundation?" Her eyes widen. "You don't think he was serious about going there tonight? It's infested with bats."

"Nonsense, Miss Valencia," Alfred dismisses. "But since you seem so concerned over Master Bruce's well-being, I will check on him after I show you to your room."

He's taken her cup and dumped it in the sink before she can object, so she has no choice but to follow him up to the small corner room he's claimed for himself. Her eyes are immediately drawn to a row of albums stacked on a small bookshelf.

"They didn't burn with the rest of the house?" she asks, running her fingers down the spines. She smiles sadly at the troubled look on Alfred's face. "It's really all right. I _can _talk about—"

Another loud crash rattles through the house. Alfred cringes, more over the curious look that comes over Valencia's face than the noise.

"I'd better go and make sure Master Bruce is all right."

"Are you sure you don't need any help?"

"No, no, you've had quite an eventful day already, Miss Valencia, and I find myself leading a more nocturnal existence these days anyway."

"The difficulties of being at Bruce Wayne's beck and call?"

Alfred suppresses a smile. "You have _no_ idea, Miss Valencia."

The butler closes the door behind him, leaving Valencia standing in the middle of the room, trying to decide what to do. The bed looks so inviting, but her bulging bag in the corner of the room reminds her it's only a matter of time before Lucius Fox realizes she still has the files for a report he no longer needs. Sighing, she begins pulling out folders.

It doesn't take her long to realize the files she wanted to take a closer look at are missing. She mentally retraces her steps, trying to see if she had left them on her desk or in Applied Sciences when Fox had surprised her. She was sure she had brought them….

* * *

><p><em><strong>And sometimes you close your eyes<br>**__**And see the place where you used to live  
><strong>__**When you were young.**_

_**They say the devil's water, it ain't so sweet.  
><strong>__**You don't have to drink right now.  
><strong>__**But you can dip your feet  
><strong>__**Every once and a little while.**_

_**You sit there in your heartache,  
><strong>__**Waiting on some beautiful boy to,  
><strong>__**To save you from your old ways.  
><strong>__**You play forgiveness. **__**Watch it now here he comes.**_

* * *

><p>When Alfred reaches the chilly confines of the cave, he stops short at the sight of Batman sweeping in. No matter how many times he has seen his young master as his alter ego, it's always a bit of a surprise how menacing his young master can look when fully suited.<p>

"Finished already?" the butler inquires.

"The Tumbler might be finished," says Batman, his voice automatically disguised in a low rasp.

Alfred sighs resignedly as he pulls on a waterproof jacket. "I told you to leave any modifications up to Lucius. You'll be taking the batpod then?"

Batman sighs, his voice losing a little of its edge. "Gordon and his team will have been all over the scene by now, and I was able to get one piece of untouched evidence." He looks over at the corner of the cave, where a computer is already running analysis on the item. The corners his grim mouth twitch upward slightly. "I can always just break into the MCU to see what they have."

"Or you could just Commissioner Gordon for it," Alfred suggests. "He never seems too hesitant to give you any information."

"With the FBI breathing down his neck, he might give it a second thought, and I'd rather not give him more trouble."

Bruce slips off the cowl, shaking out his hair, slightly damp from perspiration.

"_Oh!"_

Valencia doesn't realize the soft, startled gasp escapes her until both Alfred and Bruce turn to look in her direction.

* * *

><p><em><strong>He doesn't look a thing like Jesus,<br>**__**But he talks like a gentleman,  
><strong>__**Like you imagined when you were young,  
><strong>__**When you were young.**_

_**I said, he doesn't look a thing like Jesus.  
><strong>__**He doesn't look a thing like Jesus,  
><strong>__**But more than you'll ever know.  
><strong>_—"When You Were Young" by The Killers

* * *

><p><em><strong>AN: **Please review!_


	7. The Agreement

_**Disclaimer:**__ Unfortunately, nothing is mine except Valencia Carter and this silly little fairy tale._

_**A/N: **__I'm back, thanks to The Dark Knight Rises. What an awesome movie, though my fic won't be following that storyline. Just to be clear, GC is canon up to TDK but technically AU if you're considering TDKR. This also means the _Gotham's Cinderella_** CONTAINS NO SPOILERS**__, so feel free to read on even if you haven't seen Rises  
>P.S. Sorry, it is a bit long<em>

* * *

><p><strong>GOTHAM'S CINDERELLA<br>Chapter 7: The Agreement**  
><em>"I'm asking you to help me."<em>

* * *

><p>Except for the sound of falling water, muffled behind the impressive glass wall, absolute silence reigns in the cave. It's the perfect setting for the trio frozen in place, each waiting for someone else to make the first move.<p>

"Miss Carter," Bruce acknowledges, an ironic twist to his mouth. She can't tell whether he's mocking her.

"Mr. Wayne," she returns, and she hopes he can tell she's mocking him … or at least that the scathing tone hides the tremor in her voice.

He removes his thick gloves, a good sign he's not about to kill her, at least not with his bare hands. With the press of a button, his cape detaches from the suit, and the material slithers down his back and pools around his feet. She wonders if he's done it purely for effect.

"Is there a masquerade party tonight?" she asks archly, falling back on their loaded banter when she can't think of anything to say. She edges closer to see the rest of the cave and tries not to betray her surprise at the sophisticated operation. She has a good poker face, but he catches the widening of her sharp, bright eyes.

"Tonight, nearly every night," Bruce admits. "Not much of a party though," he adds.

"No, I imagine it becomes quite a bore after the first few murders," she drawls, though there is an edge to her voice at the last word.

His face betrays no emotion, except perhaps a quick flash of disappointment she doesn't understand. Disappointment that she doesn't approve of his secret lifestyle? Well, she can relate: Now that she knows he _is_ something more that a pretty playboy, she finds herself wishing he wasn't anything else but just that.

"Miss Lenci." They both turn to look at Alfred. It irritates her that he uses her childhood nickname, like what she's stumbled upon is a nightmare he can soothe away with another bedtime story, her favorite fairytale. "It's … not what you think." He grimaces at the inadequacy of his explanation.

"Oh, really?" He winces again at the sharpness of her voice. "So he _isn't_ Batman?" She moves backward blindly, keeping her eyes on both of them. "And you _aren't_ helping him, Alfred?" Her shoulder hits the side of the lift, and she sidesteps toward the opening.

She knows she's not getting away, but she throws her weight behind the lever anyway, forcing the lift to lurch upward with a violent swing. With an almost bored flick of the wrist, Bruce tosses a batarang toward the cable, snapping it and sending the elevator plummeting back down with a jarring crash. The impact throws Valencia to the ground.

"Master Bruce!" Alfred objects angrily, hurrying forward. "Miss Lenci, are you all right?"

As she stands, Bruce is struck by the cold determination in her eyes. It should be comical, the secretary facing off against the Batman, but Bruce finds himself intrigued. She's either very stupid or very brave or a little bit of both. A dangerous combination.

"So is this the part where I'm supposed to start crying and begging for my life?" she asks.

"Only if you have an overwhelming urge to do so," he says. She refuses to be goaded by the his teasing tone. He deflates a little, suddenly looking much older than Bruce Wayne has any right to look. "No, this is the part where we talk calmly and rationally about this, Miss Carter."

He strides across the room to set down his cowl and gloves. She resists the urge to roll her eyes as he purposely turns her back to her, showing he is completely unthreatened while also showing off his physique in the form-fitting suit that leaves little to the imagination. He sits in a chair with ease and gestures to the seat across from him.

"Miss Carter, would you please—?"

The sound of a gun being cocked cuts him off. He lazily raises an eyebrow at her as she points a handgun at him, undoubtedly one of a dozen or so similar weapons lying on a nearby table that he'd taken from a ring of smugglers the week before. He and Alfred had been trying to trace their source.

"It's not loaded," he dismisses. He'd disarmed them all himself.

She shifts her aim upward and pulls the trigger, and a deafening report echoes throughout the cave. Okay, so he may have missed one.

"Try again," she suggests, pointing the gun at him once more.

"I'm wearing armor," he reminds her, all coolness.

She takes one step toward him, her hand steady. "Kevlar plates and titanium-dipped fiber tri-weave won't stop a bullet at this range."

He raises his eyebrows, impressed. "So you did read all these files."

She notices the small stack of folders on the table beside him, the same folders that had been missing from her bag. "Did Mr. Fox tell you I had them?" He nods, she smiles bitterly. "It must take a lot of people to destroy a city."

"Yes," he agrees. "But only a few will try to save it."

This wrings a derisive laugh from her. "Is that what you call it? No, _this_ is saving Gotham." She flexes her fingers around the gun's grip, aiming straight at his chest.

They're each daring the other to give in first, and Valencia realizes very quickly that she's going to lose. She can see it in his eyes, iron will personified, the unflinching, frank gaze of a man totally in control of every aspect of himself. There's no way he's going to call her bluff. He'll take the bullet before he concedes.

Alfred steps between them, putting himself directly in the line of fire. She sees her own dismay mirrored on Bruce's face.

"And here I was hoping he'd forced you into helping him," she says, lacing her words with contempt, though she lowers the gun.

"Miss Valencia, you must let me explain—"

"Alfred, how could you?" she demands. The older man winces at her tone, equal parts indignation and accusation.

"Bruce Wayne is not a killer," Alfred persists. "He's simply playing a part, playing the villain, giving Gotham a common enemy so that it will finally unite—"

"No one is that …"— selfless? virtuous? —"_good_," she finally decides. "Do you really think I'm stupid enough to believe that?"

"No, my dear," he says earnestly. "But I think you're smart enough to appreciate that not everything is as it seems. You of all people should understand that something good can be turned into something toxic with just one damning headline."

She's intrigued, but the danger of her situation is quickly becoming more apparent. Outnumbered two to one with a dark cave as the only way out, the odds of a successful escape aren't in her favor. And she's already lost her one advantage: They both know she isn't going to use her gun against Alfred, which means it's only a matter of time before Batman stops biding his time and starts making sure she never tells anyone his true identity.

Bruce already has a half-formed plan in his head to ensure her silence, and it has nothing to do with the painful deaths Valencia is currently imagining. No, his solution is much less violent but much more involved. The tricky part is getting her (and Alfred) to agree to it.

"Miss Valencia, please give me the gun," Alfred requests, more firmly. "I swear neither Master Bruce nor myself will not harm you in any way."

As he reaches out for the gun, she raises it. Bruce springs forward and pulls Alfred to the ground as the gun goes off once more. A section of the glass wall shatters, filling the cave with shards of broken glass and the sound of roaring water.

By the time Bruce brings himself and Alfred to their feet, she has disappeared. He spares the older man a look of half disbelief, half exasperation before vaulting himself out into the rocky darkness.

He sees her almost immediately, but she's farther than he expects. He hurries after, leaping smoothly from slippery rock to water-slicked ledge. Though her progress is less fluid, she nevertheless nears the opening of the cave. Bruce, however, is confident the sharp drop will stop her from going any further. It's a blind jump, one he had attempted only once before and with the help of yards of rope.

Valencia stops short at the edge of the cave. Water falls like a curtain in front of her, ending in a pool of water some twenty feet below. She is soaked to the bone and her heart is beating wildly in her chest from exertion, fear and adrenaline. She can see no other way to escape other than by jumping, but the falling water obscures all sight of where she'll land. She glances back and catches a glimpse of a shadowy figure leaping across rocks.

Flight overrules fight, and she bends her knees to jump. The figure stops short on a nearby ledge, and she can just make out Bruce Wayne in the dark, his expression one of concern, not menace.

"No, don't—!"

His warning comes too little too late. Though she rocks back on her heels in an attempt to stop her forward motion, the combination of the wet ledge and her water-logged, traction-less flats causes her to slip. She flails, but the clumsy motion only causes her to hit her head on the rock she had been standing on, knocking her unconscious as she plunges downward and out of sight.

* * *

><p><em><strong>So they say you're trouble, boy,<br>Just because you like to destroy  
>All the things that bring the idiots joy<br>Well, what's wrong with a little destruction? **_

_**And the Kunst won't talk to you  
>Because you kissed St. Rollox adieu,<br>Because you robbed a supermarket or two.  
>Well, who gives a damn about the profits of Tesco? <strong>_

_**Did I see you in a limousine,  
>Flinging out the fish and the unleavened?<br>Turn the rich into wine as you walk down the mean?  
>The fallen are the virtuous among us.<br>Walk among us, never judge us.  
>Yeah, we're all-<strong>_

* * *

><p>"Now, why couldn't you be a good damsel in distress and let Batman rescue you properly?" Alfred chides, dabbing antiseptic on the scraped and bruised flesh at her temple.<p>

A transformed Valencia glares at him from under the ice bag she's holding to her head. Gone is her simple, perfectly work-appropriate wardrobe, replaced by several times oversized pajamas. Her previously stick-straight hair is coiling into an unruly mess of curls, softening her appearance and betraying her youth.

"Batman didn't look very much in a rescuing sort of mood," she says shortly. She flinches away from the sting, reminding Alfred of how he used to bandage her skinned knees as a child. "Ouch!" "Why is it that we fall, Miss Lenci?" Alfred says automatically.

Her glare intensifies. "Don't give me your platitudes, Alfred," she snaps. "I learned how to pick myself up a long time ago."

Even to her ears, she sounds petulant, and she gets no satisfaction from the hurt look that crosses Alfred's face. She's almost thankful when Bruce Wayne decides to make his reappearance. Almost.

Fresh from a shower, he's wearing a comfortable-looking pair of dark grey wool slacks and a navy blue shirt, a far cry from his previous outfit. She can't seem to scrounge up anything but a pale memory of the fear or anger she had felt when he had been Batman. God, maybe she does have a concussion.

She's startled when he drapes a robe over her shoulders. It fits about as well as the pajamas, but she's grateful for the extra warmth it provides. Central heating, that's what this lair needed.

She jerks back when he shoves some sort of metal tool in her face, but his hand on her shoulder keeps her in place. There's a small smile teasing his lips as he clicks on the end of the apparatus, and a light emits from it: a pen light. He passes it a few times over her left eye, then does the same to her right.

"Oh, are you a doctor now?" she asks sharply, to cover up her embarrassment.

"Only when I need to be," he answers, almost absently. He lifts the ice bag from her head by covering her hand with his own. He prods the tender area Alfred has just treated with his other hand, surprising her with his delicate touch.

"No sign of concussion, and it looks like you won't need stitches, but you're going to have one hell of a bruise."

"Thank you for your diagnosis," she says acidly. She pulls her hand free from his grasp and sets the ice bag defiantly back on her head, a move that sends pain shooting across her forehead.

"And you'll probably have a bit of a headache," Bruce adds belatedly as he throws down the pen on his cluttered table and takes the seat opposite her.

They stare at one another across the table — appraising, re-evaluating, challenging.

"I'll go get you something for that headache," Alfred says quietly.

She desperately wants him to stay, but she bites her tongue out of pride and as punishment for taking her anger out on him, when all he'd done that night — her entire life, really — was patch up her wounds and calm her.

"Don't blame him," Bruce says finally. "He's never been a huge fan of..."

"Batman?" she suggests.

"Of what I do," he decides.

"And what is it exactly that you do, Mr. Wayne?"

"I'm a vigilante." He states it plainly. No apologies, no bravado, no innuendo. "I'm the law where the law has ceased to exist."

"Why?"

He blinks. Whatever question he had been expecting her to ask, it's not this.

"Because... because no one else will do it. Because I'm not ready to give up on Gotham yet. Because I believe this city can be saved from itself."

They're truths, never uttered and barely given thought during all the nights he's donned his suit. She look skeptical, however, and he realizes that he cares what she thinks, that it's important she accepts or at least understands.

"Because the scum of this city took my parents, and I'm going to make every one of them pay."

There it is. The darkest truth of them all. She nods slowly, her expression free of any hint of condemnation.

"So, where does that put us, Mr. Wayne?" she says softly. "Is this the part where you kill me and dump my body in the river?"

"Not quite."

He gives a scrutinizing look. Swimming in his too-large clothes, with her hair disheveled and the makeup gone from her face, she looks almost too young. Almost.

"You're not as old as you pretend to be, are you?" he says.

"How old do you want me to be?"

The glib remark doesn't quite roll off her tongue as easily as she wants. There isn't enough flirtatiousness to distract him from the obvious attempt to avoid answering his question, and there's too much defiant challenge instead of allure in her eyes. He's starting to like her more and more.

"Twenty-two, isn't it?" he says, recalling the year on her birth certificate from the file Fox has compiled on her. The press would have a field day, but they always did when it came to him.

"Age is but a number."

He smirks. "Don't give me your platitudes, Miss Carter."

She doesn't like the way his eyes are fairly twinkling.

"Are you going to fire me?" she asks, almost hopefully.

"No, far from it," he assures her, all smoothness and charm. "I'm going to date you."

* * *

><p><em><strong>Up now and get 'em, boy,<br>Up now and get 'em, boy.  
>Drink to the devil, And death to the doctors. <strong>_

_**Did I see you in a limousine,  
>Flinging out the fish and the unleavened?<br>Five thousand users fed today.  
>As you feed us, won't you lead us<br>To be blessed? **_

_**So we stole and drank champagne.  
>On the seventh seal, you said you never feel pain.<br>"I never feel pain, won't you hit me again?  
>I need a bit of black and blue to be a rotation." <strong>_

_**In my blood, I feel the bubbles burst.  
>There was a flash of fist, an eyebrow burst.<br>You've a lazy laugh and a red white shirt.  
>I fall to the floor, fainting at the sight of blood.<strong>_

* * *

><p>It's unfortunate that Alfred chose that moment to reappear. The surprise announcement causes him to bobble the tray he's carrying. Both Bruce and Valencia react: She somehow manages to save two glasses and the tray of sandwiches, he's less successful with the pitcher of cold water. A laugh escapes her as half of its contents ends up on his clothes.<p>

She quickly stifles the impulse, but the melodic, foreign sound doesn't go unnoticed by Bruce. He smiles as he looks up from drying himself.

"Yes, Miss Carter?"

"Are you really asking me out, Mr. Wayne?" she asks, raising an eyebrow at him.

"Master Bruce, could I have a word?" Alfred interjects, a stern look on his face.

Bruce ignores him. "Are you accepting?"

Alfred tries again. "Miss Valencia, perhaps—?"

Valencia too dances around Alfred's attempt to stop their conversation, but her tone loses its playfulness. "Why are you asking me? Why me?" she clarifies.

"Who else?"

She looks stunned, and for a moment he wonders if he had sounded uncharitable. "You saw what happened with Selina and Natalia," he continued in a business-like manner. "It's… inefficient to keep thinking up of excuses and then to go through that nightmare every time they start asking too many questions." He looks at her significantly. "We can avoid that, now that you know."

She hadn't been insulted. _Who else?_ His words had betrayed a heartbreaking level of loneliness. Yes, who else? There is no one else, in all of Gotham, in all the world.

"It would be highly convenient... for you," she agrees. "Only..." she smiles tightly, "who is going to believe that after dating prima ballerinas and heiresses, Bruce Wayne is going to fall for a secretary?"

"Yes, who indeed?" Alfred says, drawing himself up to his fullest height and staring Bruce down.

Bruce perseveres. "The press would love it. You'd be the Cinderella of Gotham." The term rolls off his tongue pleasantly. "And this arrangement could be very convenient for you as well."

She resists the urge to roll her eyes. "Let me guess: an even bigger raise than the one you promised me at dinner?"

Bruce shrugs. "If that's what you want." He lowers his voice confidentially. "But somehow, I don't think that's it."

"Oh, really?" In contrast, her voice rises. "Do you know me so well, Mr. Wayne?" she challenges.

"No. Not yet anyway," he can't help but add. "But from what I understand, you have quite the score to settle with this city, too."

A faraway look comes across her grey-blue eyes. He knows he has her then, but he feels a slight twinge of guilt at his manipulation, guilt aided by the sharp look Alfred shoots in his direction.

"What? Gotham's Disappointment Redeemed?" She's trying to be sarcastic, but there's a hint of pleading behind her words. "Does your Christ complex go so far?"

"Oh, I'm not as selfless as that," he assures her. "As you pointed out, I have a lot to gain if we can come to some sort of an arrangement."

She scrambles to buy herself a little more time to consider. "This isn't the proposition Linda Page warned me about, is it?"

"Not unless you want it to be?"

"Master Bruce!" Alfred's voice is sharper than Bruce of Valencia can ever remember. "I really don't think—"

"This would be a purely business arrangement," Bruce clarifies. "We can sort out the details later, but if you keep my secret and pretend to be my girlfriend, you can have anything my money can buy you... and you get to reclaim your spot at the top of Gotham society."

She's never admitted it to herself before, never even allowed herself to think it, but once he says it, she knows that's all she's ever wanted for the last six years.

"You really don't know what you're asking of me, Mr. Wayne," she says finally, almost desperately. "I'm asking you to help me."

Valencia sighs. Her gaze wanders the cave and all that it holds, testimony to the insane, unbelievable task one man had taken on himself. Only someone with Bruce Wayne's ego could think he could save Gotham single-handed.

She looks up at Alfred for guidance. The older man shakes his head, pleading for her refusal with his eyes.

"What if I say yes?"

"Then you're about to get one hell of a raise and something of a promotion."

Suddenly it's very important that he understands why she's about to agree to this insane deal. "You're right, I don't care about the money. I'd do it for nothing if you wanted. And I couldn't care less about the fame or attention. But if it helps save Gotham, then—"

"It will," he assures her. "You will." He leaves her to her thoughts for a moment, not wishing to hurry her into a decision.

Her eyes are alight with challenge and opportunity as she extends her hand over the table to him.

"I'll do it. Of course, I'll do it."

* * *

><p><em><strong>Did I see you in a limousine,<br>Flinging out the fish and the unleavened?  
>You turn the rich into wine, walking the mean,<br>Be they Magdalene or virgin- you've already been,  
>You've already been and we've already seen<br>That the fallen are the virtuous among us  
>Walk among us, never judge us To be blessed <strong>_

_**So, I'm sorry if I ever resisted.  
>I never had a doubt that you ever existed.<br>I only have a problem when people insist on  
>Taking their hate and placing it on your name. <strong>_

_**So they say you're trouble, boy,  
>Just because you like to destroy.<br>You are the word, the word is 'destroy.'  
>I break this bottle and think of you promptly.<strong>_

* * *

><p>It's quiet in the cave once more after an exhausted Valencia drags herself to bed. Bruce busies himself with cleaning his suit and putting it away, but he can feel Alfred's eyes boring into the back of his head.<p>

"Did you come up with that plan just now?" Alfred asks, rounding on his young charge.

"Yeah." He breaks down under the butler's intense stare. "Give or take twelve hours or so," he concedes.

"And what happened twelve hours ago?" Alfred demands.

"Your Miss Valencia decided to take on Selina Kyle in front of the entire 40th floor of Wayne Tower," Bruce says, not bothering to hide his admiration. "She made Lina look silly, inconsequential. That's not an easy accomplishment, and I've been trying for months."

"It's good to see you applaud someone other than yourself, Master Wayne, but surely something else led you to this ridiculous idea of yours?"

From the disapproving look on the older man's face, Bruce knows what Alfred's fishing for. "It's not because I'm attracted to her, though she's very pretty," he adds hastily, when Alfred looks at him sharply. "It's just... she could be—she _should_ be so much more. You were right, she's completely wasted as my secretary. She deserves something better than that."

"So promote her! Give her a raise or put her on the bleeding board of trustees!" Alfred exclaims.

"This isn't about Wayne Enterprises, Alfred. She said it herself: This is about Gotham. She understands this city like no one else I've ever met, and now she's got a chance to be part of something that deserves her."

"You don't get to make that decision, Master Bruce!" Alfred says gravely. "Please reconsider. Don't drag her into this!"

"I can't do that, Alfred. She knows too much," Bruce reasons. "And I didn't exactly have to force her to agree to my terms, did I?"

"Master Bruce." The tone of the butler is enough to stop him in his tracks. Alfred's face is deadly serious. "I don't want you to involve Miss Valencia with this, with Batman."

"Don't you trust her?"

"Yes, I do, and if she says she'll keep your secret, you can trust that she will. You don't need to drag her into this to make sure she keeps quiet."

Bruce is silent for a moment. "You're thinking of Rachel," he finally says.

"I am," the butler admits.

"So am I. This is what I found at Miss Carter's apartment."

Bruce gestures Alfred over to Fox's state-of-the-art forensics machine, which is still running analysis on the evidence he'd quickly pocketed. Alfred's heart sinks, the playing cards now a familiar sight in the months they've spent trying to track down the Joker. Bruce flips on the screen of a nearby computer to show the underside, and sure enough, there's the familiar Joker card, only this time there's another card with it: the queen of hearts with Valencia's picture pasted onto its body, a bright red X slashed over all.

"My God," Alfred murmurs, sitting down heavily.

"It's as much for her good as it is mine," Bruce says grimly. "She'll be safer with me," he says. "With us."

"And you get to make sure she's keeping quiet."

"Exactly. It's a win-win situation. How many of those do you get in this city?"

Alfred looks thoughtful as Bruce scans a copy of the card and adds it to their growing collection of Joker files. "But why her?" the butler muses. "She's not a public figure, she's just arrived in the city—"

"Returned," Bruce corrects. The butler looks at him sharply.

"She's just _returned_ to Gotham." He reaches for Valencia's file, the one Fox had compiled for her interview. "I think your Miss Valencia just might be the key to helping us figure out exactly who the Joker is."

* * *

><p><strong><em>Did I see you in a limousine,<br>Flinging out the fish and the unleavened?  
>To the whore in a hostel or the scum of a scheme?<br>Turn the rich into wine, walking the mean?  
>It's not a jag in the arm, it's a nail in the beam<br>On this barren Earth, you scatter your seed.  
>Be they Magdalene or virgin, you've already been,<br>Yeah, you've already been And we've already seen that the… _**

**_You've already been, we've already seen  
>That the fallen are the virtuous among us,<br>Walk among us  
>If you judge us, we're all damned<em>**  
>—"The Fallen" by Franz Ferdinand<p>

* * *

><p><em><strong>AN:**__ Please review!_


	8. The Godmother

_**Disclaimer**: Unfortunately, nothing is mine except Valencia Carter and this silly little fairy tale._

* * *

><p><strong>GOTHAM'S CINDERELLA<strong>  
><strong>Chapter 8: The Godmother<strong>  
><em>There's only one person she knows who could call Bruce Wayne a stupid boy.<em>

* * *

><p>It's not official yet. No one in Gotham knows that Bruce Wayne is, for all intents and purposes, dating Valencia Carter.<p>

There are rumors, of course — how could there not be after that scene in Wayne Tower, their dinner at the Fox Gardens, and the footage of him arriving at her apartment building the night it was burned? But though the city scrambles to remember why Valencia Carter is such a familiar name (Gothamite Magazine runs a six-page spread detailing her rise and fall), she's quickly dismissed as a fling that fizzled even before it began. It's hardly news when Bruce Wayne dates his secretary. The only curiosity is that she doesn't get fired afterward. But Miss Carter's filing skills and typing speed are, after all, unparalleled.

They are careful to encourage this way of thinking. He's seen with first this model, then that actress, with maybe an heiress squeezed in between. True, Valencia's become more of a personal assistant than just his in-office secretary, but that barely raises any eyebrows. Her mother had worked at Wayne Manor as a maid, so it was only natural her daughter would continue in service for the Wayne family. Sure, they have lunch tête-à-tête all the time, but it's the 21st century and servants don't necessarily sleep in the servants' quarters anymore. Hell, they could even be warming the bed of the master bedroom, but Bruce Wayne has better taste than that.

It was Alfred who insisted they postpone going public and wait before she declares herself Bruce Wayne's exclusive girlfriend. Bruce, on the other hand, had all been for using the rumors as the springboard for their relationship, and Valencia had agreed, but Alfred was adamant. As he didn't wish to lose an ally just when he had gained one, Bruce conceded to the older man's wishes, though he suspects Alfred is just buying extra time in the hopes that Valencia will come to her senses and back out of their agreement. No such luck on that front so far, however, and Bruce is strangely comforted by the fact that she seems to want this as much as he does.

And she does. She wants it so badly she knows it can't be good. Real life doesn't work like it does in fairy tales. She knows that. She'd tried it once, and it had failed spectacularly, and it's ridiculous to think this is her second chance.

Why did she have to go and be Bruce Wayne's secretary? And why did Bruce Wayne have to go and be Batman? Her life could have been relatively simple and straightforward if she hadn't let her curiosity get the better of her. But as soon as she thinks that, she knows she doesn't really feel that way. For the first time since she returned to Gotham, she feels like she truly has a purpose. She feels excited. She feel rejuvenated. She feels alive. She feels absolutely terrified. She feels—

Overall, she feels guilty. Guilty that her intentions aren't as noble as Bruce's. Guilty that a major influencing factor in her decision was imagining the look on Selina Kyle's face when they go public as a couple. Guilty that she's doing this in his memory when she's sure he wouldn't want it. Guilty that she's lying to everyone, even herself, that she can do this.

* * *

><p><strong>Console me in my darkest hour.<strong>  
><strong>Convince me that the truth is always gray. <strong>  
><strong>Caress me in your velvet chair. <strong>  
><strong>Conceal me from the ghost you cast away.<strong>

**I ain't in no hurry. You go run **  
><strong>And tell your friends I'm losing touch. <strong>  
><strong>Fill their heads with rumors of impending doom. <strong>  
><strong>It must be true.<strong>

* * *

><p>After spending a tedious morning opening a new wing of the Gotham Museum, Bruce drives out to the Palisades, where they will be spending the rest of the day going over progress at the Manor. She's already there when he arrives, catalogues and print samples poking out of her bag. She looks up from her phone as the purr of the Lamborghini's engine announces his arrival.<p>

"Alfred didn't confiscate your key, did he?" he asks.

"What? Oh no, I was just trying to sort out that extra ticket you needed for Saturday night," she says, tucking her phone away as they go inside, footsteps echoing in the still empty hall. "They won't send one without your date's name, though I suspect that has more to do with satisfying Megara Ashland's curiosity than clearance checks." She gives him half a smile. "Are you sure your date wants to keep her identity a secret?"

"Well, that's up to you really."

Her eyes widen as she realizes what he's driving at. "The Million-Dollar Masquerade?" she says faintly. She remembers herself and adds briskly, "You don't know how to do anything subtly, do you, Mr. Wayne?"

"I didn't think we were going for subtle, Miss Carter."

There would be no event bigger or more high-profile than the Gotham City Police Department's annual Million-Dollar Masquerade Ball. All of Gotham's elite would be sure to attend the biggest fundraiser of the year.

"If you're going to persist in this awful plan, I suggest you start learning to call each other by your first names," Alfred says, coming out of one of the side rooms that had yet to be furnished. "And you, my dear, are going to need a fairy godmother if you're trying for this Cinderella nonsense."

"Are you volunteering?" she asks impertinently.

"I don't think things are as dire as that," Alfred retorts, opening the doors and gesturing them through.

Though she shoots a questioning look up at Bruce, he doesn't give anything away. She steps into the room and finds that an entire department store has been crammed inside. Racks and racks of clothes, from casual to evening wear (all designer, of course) line the walls, and boxes upon boxes of shoes fill the remaining space.

"Oh, is this how you do your shopping, Mr. Way—... Bruce?" she asks, trying and failing not to sound impressed. His first name comes out with difficulty, and he notes that they would have to work on that.

"Not all the time, Valencia." In contrast, her name rolls off easily, and he quells the urge to say it again. "Armani has my measurements, so..." He shrugs.

"God forbid you wear anything but Armani," Valencia mutters to herself, picking her way carefully between Chanel's fall line and a group of shopping bags overflowing with tissue paper.

Allowing himself a small smile at her comment, Bruce follows her to a card table laid out with masks. They're not your run-of-the-mill Halloween variety but rather beautiful little works of art resting in nests of cotton and tissue. She veers away from one covered in what looks suspiciously like diamonds.

"Don't you find this all kinds of ironic?" she asks him as she experimentally holds a glaringly fuschia mask up to her face. It clashes horribly with her red hair, and Bruce makes another mental note to never buy her anything in that color.

"You could say that about a lot of things in my life," he replies, eying the collection of simpler, more masculine masks reluctantly. He turns away from them to hover interestedly over her shoulder as she browses through the lace- and feather-covered pieces.

"Any preferences?" she asks, trying to ignore the fact that he's standing directly behind her, not unlike the way he had trapped her at her desk the day Selina had shown up at Wayne Tower. To distract herself, she turns over the mask's price tag and immediately wishes she hadn't.

"First rule, don't worry about the cost," he says, taking the mask from her and tossing it aside. "Until you can charge $500 to my credit card without blinking, don't look at price tags."

She tries her best to refrain from rolling her eyes as he nods toward a collection of crystal-encrusted masks.

"Was there a second rule?" she asks, picking up a relatively simple mask of black lace against a background of dark grey.

"No, not really."

She blinks at him from behind the mask. He absently tilts her chin up to better survey the mask on her. It lends her an air of dark mystery, her grey-blue eyes mesmerizing when framed by the shadowy colors.

He realizes too late that he's still touching her. He quickly retracts his hand, and she starts breathing again.

"Hadn't you better pick the mask to match the dress instead of the other way around?" he suggests, wondering why his voice sounded slightly rough.

"Yes, that would probably be the best way to do it," she agrees, restoring the mask to its nest. "What about you?" she asks, the solicitous secretary once more. "It's black tie, so you already know what you're wearing."

"People don't come to these parties to see Bruce Wayne in a mask," he answers, retracing their steps to the door. "They come to see Bruce Wayne."

The complete lack of arrogance in his statement finally convinces Valencia that she is in way over her head. It dawns on her that she is the most inexperienced player in a very dangerous game, and the stakes are incredibly high. Maybe she can keep up with Bruce Wayne when it comes to quips and comebacks, but how can she ever hope to live up to the high standard to which he holds himself when an entire city is watching their every move?

Something of her uncertainty must have shown on her face. "You don't have to do this, you know," he says seriously. "I know it's asking a lot of you, and if it's too much—"

"Too much for Valencia Carter? There is no such thing, you stupid boy!"

Valencia peers around Bruce to see the newcomer. There's only one person she knows who could call Bruce Wayne a stupid boy.

"And you stupid girl!" She catches sight of Valencia and charges forward. "I still have the last dress I made you hanging in the back of my shop. It's been there, waiting for you for six years, just like me. I'm okay with you not saying goodbye then, but I'm not okay with you not coming to say hello when you came back. I had to learn the truth about Gotham's prodigal daughter returning from Alfred Fancypants, here."

"Signora Infantino!" Valencia starts to object, but the name is all that she gets out before the pudgy, middle-aged woman is squeezing the breath out of her. The Italian name is more of a PR stunt than anything, but Gotham likes its couturiers with a flair of the foreign.

She pulls away abruptly and gives Valencia a good shake by the shoulders. "'Signora Infantino'? Whatever happened to good old Auntie Carmen? No more of this running away business, you hear? This is where you belong, Valley Carter. There's no getting around that, and I'm going to make sure everyone else sees it." She impatiently wipes some tears from her eyes and whips out a measuring tape.

Valencia throws a bewildered look at Bruce and Alfred. "You're going to make a dress in three days? I thought all this..." She gestures at the other clothes in the room.

"Hmph!" Signora Infantino dismisses them with a wave of her hand. She pushes aside the Versace rack and shoves at a stack of Louboutin boxes to make more room. "Bruce Wayne says I'm supposed to make something fit for the Cinderella of Gotham City, so I'll do just that." She forces Valencia to turn around. "And you and Mr. Fancypants can help me with the sewing."

"Apparently things are as dire as that," Alfred says dryly. He and Carmen Infantino had never been the best of friends.

"Cinderella needs a fairy godmother. Who better than her real godmother?" Signora Infantino retorts.

"Really, I think we're taking the metaphor a bit too far," Valencia interrupts. She still looks slightly overwhelmed. "This is ridiculous."

The designer takes a step back and starts circling Valencia, casting a critical eye at her from every angle. "Stop giving me that wide-eyed look. You look like a 16-year-old already without it, and we can't have that if you're going to date Bruce Wayne." She turns Valencia around again. "But it seems you have matured in some areas." The older woman's eyes twinkle at Bruce as she measures Valencia's bust. "She's not built like your other girlfriends, hmm?"

Blushing madly, Valencia bats the designer's hands away and hurriedly ushers Alfred and a grinning Bruce out of the room before the older woman can embarrass her any further.

"I'll sort out your ticket with Megara Ashland," Bruce says, still not quite managing to hide his smile.

"And I'll go get my needle and thread," Alfred grumbles, though he's mollified slightly by a kiss on the cheek from Valencia.

"Right, then," Valencia says, closing the doors behind them and turning to face Signora Infantino, her eyes beginning to glow with excitement. "Let's get started."

* * *

><p><em><strong>Console me in my darkest hour, <strong>_  
><em><strong>And tell me that you always hear my cries. <strong>_  
><em><strong>I wonder what you got conspired. <strong>_  
><em><strong>I'm sure it dons a consolation prize. <strong>_

_**I ain't in no hurry. You go run **_  
><em><strong>And tell your friends I'm losing touch. <strong>_  
><em><strong>Fill the night with stories. The legend grows<strong>_

_**Of how you got lost, **_  
><em><strong>But you made your way back home. <strong>_  
><em><strong>You sold your soul, like a roamin' vagabond, yeah.<strong>_

* * *

><p>The Gotham Clock Tower tolls the hour: 10 o'clock. Valencia looks out the window of her hotel room (courtesy of Wayne Enterprises' top-notch insurance policy) and gazes down at the shadowy street some twenty stories below.<p>

As the last chime fades to silence, Valencia turns to look at her reflection in the mirror. A stranger stares back at her. No, not exactly a stranger, she decides after a moment. Perhaps a ghost of the past Valencia Carter, a shadow of what she could have been finally come to life.

"Miss Valencia, why are you doing this?"

Alfred's voice startles her. She turns around and sees the butler outlined in the doorway of the room. Her lips curve upward, but the smile is empty.

"Shouldn't you be helping someone put on their Armani tuxedo?"

Alfred allows her a moment to avoid his question. "Contrary to popular belief, Master Wayne can dress himself."

"'Contrary to popular belief,'" she repeats. "The perfect way to describe Bruce Wayne."

"Miss Valencia..."

"Why am I doing this?" she asks for him as she turns back to the mirror. Her voice is airy, light, fake. "Oh, there are lots and lots of reasons, Mr. Pennyworth." She feigns a slight curtsey to her reflection to see how her skirt would behave. "But believe me, if Bruce Wayne gave you carte blanche with his credit card, you would consider being his girlfriend too."

"Miss Lenci, stop it," Alfred begs. "We both know that's not the real reason you're doing this." He pauses, wondering how best to phrase his next thought. "It's not... it's not a good thing to be fueled by revenge," he emphasizes.

"Coming from the man who helped Bruce Wayne become Batman—"

"Yes! I have seen him give up _everything_ for his revenge: his reputation, his freedom, the love of his life — everything that defined him has been twisted to serve the purpose of the monster he transforms into every night. I have known both of you your entire lives, and I care about both of you as if you were my own children. If I can save one of you from making the same mistakes—"

"That's not what it's about at all!" she says passionately. "Batman allows Bruce to fulfill his potential, to be something he normally couldn't be, something _more_ than just another person trapped in Gotham. Batman is Bruce, and Bruce is Batman. And maybe he is fueled by revenge, but he turns it into something good, something so much better."

She falters, suddenly embarrassed by her outburst of emotion.

"And he's doing the same to you?" Alfred asks. "Help me to understand, Miss Valencia. Is that it? He's turning you into something more than a secretary? But you could do that by yourself. You don't need all this," he gestures at her elaborate dress, "to do that. He wouldn't want you to be doing this, young Mr. Na—"

"This isn't about Nathan!" she exclaims. "For once, can't it just be about me? Yes, Nathan is — was a big part of my life, but he's not here anymore. It's just me and my life, and my choice about what do with it." Her expression softens. "I know we've put you in a terrible position, Alfred, but Bruce asked for my help, and I'm going to give it to him. And if I can get a little bit of revenge along the way? Well, it's a win-win situation! You don't get many of those in this city."

They are silent for a long moment.

"That's what Master Bruce said," Alfred admits grudgingly.

"You see? We're made for each other."

"And I see you've taken one thing I've said to heart and started calling him by his first name."

She smiles brightly because otherwise she'll burst into tears. As if on cue, Signora Infantino bursts through the door with Valencia's mask in hand, the last piece needed to complete her costume.

"What are you doing here, Mr. Fancypants? Trying to ruin my masterpiece?" she cries. She fans Valencia's cheeks, willing the heightened color to fade away, as Valencia blinks rapidly to save her mascara from any wayward tears. Once the crisis is averted, Signora Infantino begins the delicate operation of tying her mask in place, hiding the ribbons around Valencia's carefully styled hair.

Once she's finished, she steps back to survey her handiwork, reaching out every few seconds to smooth a wrinkle here, rearrange a curl there. Even with his misgivings, Alfred can't help but admire how lovely Valencia looks. He almost wishes he could be there to see her and Bruce stand beside one another... though he expects pictures of the couple will be on the front page of every newspaper in the city by morning.

"You look breathtaking, my dear," he says sincerely.

She's never been so glad to hear the endearment, but Signora Infantino intercepts her before she can give him a hug.

"None of that!" her godmother commands, handing her a purse dyed to match her mask and dress perfectly. She throws a glance at Alfred over her shoulder. "Did you bring the ticket, Mr. Fancypants?"

The butler withdraws an envelope from his breast pocket and hands it to Valencia. His eyes are twinkling, and she knows he has his blessing, albeit given reluctantly.

"Oh, and this is from Master Bruce." He takes out a velvet jewelry case and pops the lid open to reveal a silver necklace with a delicately wrought butterfly pendant of sapphires and diamonds. Valencia gasps, and even Signora Infantino is struck momentarily speechless.

"He doesn't know how to do anything subtly, does he?" Valencia whispers, reaching out to touch the necklace with her fingertips.

Signora Infantino swats her hand away and snatches the necklace from Alfred. She sweeps it onto Valencia's neck, and it rests perfectly in the space where the bodice of her dress dips down.

"All right, off with you!" her godmother orders, shooing her out the door.

"The car is already waiting by the curb," Alfred adds. "Good luck, Miss Lenci."

"Thank you so much, Alfred, Auntie Carmen. I won't let you down."

She gives them one more smile and a wave before she disappears into the elevator, her dress floating around her.

"If he hurts her in any way, Mr. Fancy Pants, I'll hurt him right back, I'm warning you," Carmen Infantino threatens.

"Don't worry, I'll do it for you if he does anything of the sort."

* * *

><p><em><strong>I heard you found a wishing well in the city. <strong>_  
><em><strong>Console me in my darkest hour, <strong>_  
><em><strong>And you throw me down.<strong>_

_**I ain't in no hurry. You go run**_  
><em><strong>And tell your friends I'm losing touch. <strong>_  
><em><strong>Fill your crown with rumors. <strong>_  
><em><strong>Impending doom, it must be true.<strong>_

* * *

><p>Sitting in the back of the hired car, Valencia clenches her hands tightly around her clutch. Her heart is beating so wildly in her chest, she's surprised the butterfly hanging around her neck isn't taking flight with each <em>thud<em>.

She's thankful for every red light they hit. It gives her a little more time play with the thought of asking the driver to either a) turn around and bring her back to her hotel or b) head straight for Gotham Airport. She won't do it, of course, but she tortures herself with what-ifs.

Her little argument with Alfred had shaken her more than she wants to admit. He'd provoked her into defending Bruce with a fervor she didn't know she even had. Does she really have such unshakeable faith in a man she hardly knows, yet knows so much about? Where had that passion come from? She hadn't felt that earnest about something in years.

And behind it all lies that guilt, amplified by her revealing outburst. Surely it couldn't mean anything that she spoke Nathan's name for the first time in years the same night she manages to drop the "Mr." and "Wayne" from Bruce's.

She'd always been able to move forward, to move on with life no matter what it threw at her. Her beautiful, flighty mother had always had her head in the clouds, so she had played the adult in their family, making sure the bills were paid and there was food to eat. She and Nathan had been so, so young, but it hadn't felt that way then, planning a future that could only end in forever. And after... after, she'd rebuilt a life in England, nothing spectacular but not that bad either. There's always the next step, the next stage, the next challenge to take on. But this feels different. This isn't merely the next step; this is something else entirely, something unknown, something new.

Nathan had been the driving force behind everything she's done in the last six years, but now that's changed.

For once, this is about her and only her. And maybe Bruce.

The car comes to a stop in front of the Gotham City Opera House, the ribbon of black velvet winding down the steps ending right at her door.

"Miss, we're here."

_**_**But you made your way back home. **_  
><em><strong>You sold your soul, like a roamin' vagabond, <strong>_  
><em><strong>And about how you got lost, but you made your way back home. <strong>_  
><em><strong>You went and sold your soul, an allegiance dead and gone.<strong>_  
><strong>_

_**I'm losing touch.**_  
>—"Losing Touch" by The Killers<p>

* * *

><p><em><strong>AN:** Please review!_


	9. The Masquerade

_**Disclaimer**__: Unfortunately, nothing is mine except Valencia Carter and this silly little fairy tale._

_**A/N**__: The chapter song is "The World We Live in" by The Killers. The waltz is "The Banker's Waltz" by Hans Zimmer from the Matchstick Men soundtrack._

* * *

><p><strong>GOTHAM'S CINDERELLA<strong>  
><strong>Chapter 9: The Masquerade<strong>  
><em>... and with one simple, flawless tug, the strings holding her mask in place are undone.<em>

* * *

><p>The doorman opens the door and bows her through. The sounds of the street and the city die away, replaced by classical music, murmuring voices, and the clink of glass on glass, all blended together in the way she remembers so well.<p>

Where a row of ushers normally would be taking tickets, Mrs. Megara Ashland has set up shop as the lone gatekeeper to the most exclusive event in Gotham City. She sits in a high-backed armchair, not far removed from a throne, presiding over the ticket table. As Valencia approaches, Mrs. Ashland eyes her curiously.

"Good evening," the society dame greets guardedly. "My, what a lovely dress! And that necklace is simply stunning!"

Valencia merely smiles, refusing to be provoked into conversation. The point of the fundraiser is for guests to bid on each other for the right to unmask them. Though these days hardly anyone sticks to the outdated rules of the masquerade, tonight they suit hers and Bruce's purposes, and she plans on keeping her identity a secret until the Unmasking.

Mrs. Ashland takes her ticket and envelope, scrutinizing both closely, not knowing that Alfred had taken the precaution of ensuring her name couldn't be read through the gilded envelope. Thwarted, she scrawls the number 267 on the envelope and hands Valencia the corresponding gold-plated tag.

"You just pin that on your dress where everyone can see it, and at midnight..."

She drifts away before Mrs. Ashland can unleash the Inquisition.

The cavernous lobby of the Gotham City Opera House has taken on an atmosphere of dark intimacy. Yards of shimmering black chiffon and silk, artistically draped from the two floors of balconies above, imitate the starry night sky overhead as the chandeliers twinkle uncertainly through the semi-transparent fabrics. Though the center of the hall is left clear for dancing, the same material hangs like curtains in the halls beneath the balconies, sealing off the alcoves from bright lights and prying eyes.

In contrast to the shadowy backdrop, the guests' attire is colorful and gaudy, each costume more vivid and exotic than the next. Valencia notes with some pleasure and not a little pride that none can hold a candle to Signora Infantino's creation.

Bruce looks up from the blonde that is not so subtly waving her tag (and other body parts) under his nose and spots Valencia easily. Her dress, a gradient of sea-foam green at the bodice to cobalt blue near her hem, could pass as the usual, nondescript red carpet affair, but then a breeze from the doors behind her unfurls the skirt, displaying her costume to its fullest advantage. The layered material resembles the wings of a blue monarch butterfly, the bodice two overlapping wings wrapped around her torso. She moves, and the dress floats with her.

"Are you even listening to me?" the blonde demands, pressing herself even closer.

"Er, no," Bruce says truthfully. "Excuse me."

Before he can take two steps in her direction, someone else approaches Valencia: Kennedy Kyle, Selina's brother.

Valencia sees the dark-haired man coming toward her, but she doesn't look at him until he's standing right in front of her, close enough that she has to tilt back her head to see him properly. His tuxedo is tailored to match the his mask, black bordered with gold.

"Hello, Miss... 267." He reaches out to touch her tag, his hand inappropriately brushing her chest. "Do I know you?"

"Don't you recognize me, Ken?" she asks. They'd been at Gotham Prep together.

Her question throws him off. He regards her closely, wracking his memory. His eyes settle on her chest, and she resists the urge to roll hers. He hasn't changed much since high school.

"I think I'd remember you," he leers. "Why don't you jog my memory?`"

He smoothly takes two glasses of champagne from a passing tray and hands her one, waiting expectantly.

"We're not supposed to tell until the Unmasking."

"No one follows the rules of that old cow," he says, referring to Mrs. Ashland. "I'll still bid on you, if that's what you're afraid of." Emboldened rather than put off by her silence, he snakes an arm around her waist. He uses his height to tower over her and peer down the front of her dress. "If you want to play it that way, I'm game. Why don't we get to know each other a little better another way, then?"

She shifts away from him as best she can, and the necklace Bruce had sent her frees itself from the folds of her dress. His eyes latch onto it greedily. "That's a fine piece of hardware. Gift from your old man?"

She can already see him planning their wedding, pre-nup not included. "My boyfriend, actually," she says, taking advantage of his distraction to twist out of his grasp. "You can try to outbid him, if you like, but I wouldn't advise it. You wouldn't be able to afford it."

"Oh, yeah? There's not much a Kyle can't afford, and that's a guarantee."

"Thanks, but I think I'll stick with him."

"Fine." He lets her go, but his eyes continue to follow her with a predatory gleam. "I'll see you at midnight, center stage, when we start off the Unmasking," he promises cockily, as he backs away with what is supposed to be a smoldering look.

She turns her back on him and finds three other men vying for her attention, attracted to her solely because Ken Kyle had shown interest. She puts on a smile and takes the cup of spiked punch one of them is offering.

Let the games begin.

* * *

><p><em><strong>This is the world that we live in.<strong>_  
><em><strong>I feel myself get tired. <strong>_  
><em><strong>This is the world that we live in. <strong>_

_**Well, maybe I was mistaken. **_  
><em><strong>I heard a rumor that you quit this day and age. <strong>_  
><em><strong>Well, maybe I was mistaken. <strong>_  
><em><strong>Bless your body, bless your soul, <strong>_  
><em><strong>Pray for peace and self-control.<strong>_

_**I gotta believe it's worth it. **_  
><em><strong>Without a victory, I'm so sanctified and free. <strong>_  
><em><strong>Well, maybe I'm just mistaken. <strong>_  
><em><strong>Lesson learned, and the wheels keep turning.<strong>_

* * *

><p>She laughs, she dances, she sparkles. No one really cares about who is behind the mask, so she's whatever anyone wants her to be: the shy girl, the flirt, the tease, the ice queen. She makes sure that she's seen with the richest and most powerful men in Gotham... that their wives, girlfriends, sisters, and mothers are whispering about her... that everyone is wondering where they've seen the girl in the butterfly dress before...<p>

With every glass of cool liquid that slides down her throat, each whirling turn around the dance floor, it gets easier not to worry about the fact she has not seen a hint of the richest and most powerful man in the city.

She happens to be alone when the clock strikes twelve. As the stormy tones of the Gotham Clock Tower ring through the hall, she's suddenly filled with a sense of foreboding, each toll like a hammer against her heart. The Cinderella of Gotham, Bruce had said. But midnight had signaled the end of that fairy tale, not the beginning.

In her element, Megara Ashland sweeps onto the dancefloor as the last chime fades away, clearing a small space at the center with an imperious wave of her hand.

"It's the time you've all been waiting for!" she trills, holding up two sealed envelopes in a perfectly manicured hand. "I'm here to announce tonight's highest bidder and the couple that will start off tonight's Unmasking! But first, I'd like to thank a few people who made all of this possible..."

As Mrs. Ashland rattles off the names of benefactors and volunteers, Valencia drains the last drops of pink liquid in her glass and surrenders it to a passing waiter before her trembling hands send it falling to the floor.

Mrs. Ashland reaches the end of her laundry list of thank-yous. "And, without further ado, the highest bidder of the night is—" she pauses dramatically to open the first envelope, "— Bruce Wayne!"

Valencia lets out a breath she didn't know she had been holding. She peers between shoulders and catches a glimpse of that perfectly tailored tuxedo before sequins and feathers obscure her sight once more.

There's a collective, good-natured groan at the announcement. It's expected, of course. Bruce raises his glass, acknowledging the attention as he allows Mrs. Ashland to drag him into the center of the circle.

"Mr. Wayne has been generous enough to donate — oh, my _goodness_ — one million dollars!"

There's a collective gasp of genuine surprise, and the amount finally convinces Valencia that a joke has been played on her. Single-handedly, Bruce has fulfilled the goal of the entire fundraiser. No one in their right mind would shell out that amount of money for her. She allows the crowd to surge around her as they step forward to better hear who in all of Gotham could have caught Bruce Wayne's roving eye and made his checkbook sing to the tune of $1 million.

She begins to move toward the exit. No one pays her any attention now. It's better this way, simpler, cleaner—

A hand clasps her own, fingers falling together like two pieces of a puzzle. She turns, but he's already headed in the opposite direction with her in tow, the path he'd cut through the guests remaining open as he retraces his steps to the center of the circle.

He sweeps her onto the dance floor, her dress springing free and unfurling in the way Signora Infantino intended, butterfly wings taking flight. Their hands fall apart as they come to a standstill in front of Mrs. Ashland, but his brown eyes lock hers in an unbreakable gaze.

"Now let us find out who the lucky, mysterious young lady known tonight as Guest 267 is!" There's a slight edge to Mrs. Ashland's usually dulcet tones; she's vexed at not recognizing Valencia. The society dame rips open the other envelope in her hand with a lethal-looking nail. "Allow me to introduce Miss Val..."

The shock is enough to melt Mrs. Ashland's perpetually frozen-in-place smile. For the first time in her life, Megara Ashland is rendered completely speechless.

Bruce brings his hand up behind Valencia's head, and for one wild moment she thinks he's about to pull her into a violent kiss, worthy of a Gothamite Magazine cover.

"Miss Valencia Carter," Bruce finishes, and with one simple, flawless tug, the strings holding her mask in place are undone.

The expensive piece of cardboard falls from her face, and they both reach out to catch it, fingers intertwining around the mess of crystals, lace and ribbon. There are audible gasps of surprise, whispers rush through the room. Surely not... there must be some mistake... couldn't it be another...?

As winners of the Masquerade have been doing for nearly a century, Bruce bows over their interlaced hands and presses a kiss against the back of hers. The thin satin of her glove fails to stop her skin from tingling at the feel of his lips. She sinks into a curtsy, her dress billowing delicately about her.

They pause, allowing everyone to appreciate the tableau, before he pulls her to her feet, sending Swarovski crystals digging into her skin and twinkling to the floor. His other hand loops around her waist and draws her to him. A small gasp escapes her, soft enough for only him to hear, as she finds her body suddenly molded against his, all space between them erased.

Not to be outdone, her hand snakes suggestively up his chest, her glove sliding luxuriously against the fine material of his jacket as it makes its way to his shoulder. Her eyes follow the same path up his body until they lock onto his own. There's the strangest mixture of defiance and vulnerability in her expression, a look he would, from then on, think of as quintessentially her. He feels a flash of guilt that he's dragging her down into his endless masquerade of a life. He wants nothing more than to reassure her, to have her trust him, to protect her.

He should have let her leave. And yet, he's not at all sorry that she's there with him, just the two of them against everyone else.

It takes longer than it should for the band to strike up a song, so they wait together, looking only at one another, knowing everyone else is looking at them.

The string section finally begins the song he'd arranged for them to play. It's not the light-hearted, delicate waltz everyone expects, but a darker, more powerful variation with unexpected swells of volume and a hint of mischievousness underneath.

"No mask?" she asks, running her fingers through hair that should have been dented by an elastic band. Her fingertips brush the nape of his neck, not unlike that day in Wayne Tower, when he had taken the pen from behind her ear.

He gives as good as he gets and leans in so that his lips are brushing said ear. "You saw the Gotham Times poll," he murmurs. "The readers prefer I go without a mask."

"I believe it said 'nothing but a mask,'" she reminds him. "How dare you disappoint them!"

He takes them to the very edge of the dance floor, where the Kyles are glowering. The hem of her skirt flicks out to hit Selina's as he quickly draws her back toward the center. The black-haired beauty looks absolutely livid, her brother not far behind.

"Was Kyle giving you trouble?" he asks darkly.

"It's not his fault, really. Dangle this in front of a Kyle, and it's like catnip to them," she says, flicking her eyes toward her necklace.

He follows her glance and looks down. Big mistake. He stares blankly in the vicinity of her chest for a moment. She clears her throat, and his eyes snap to her face a little too quickly for him to pass it off as the playboy act.

"The necklace," she clarifies. He sees the corners of her mouth twitch upward in a smirk, but she lets it slide. "I dread to think how much it cost, but it is very lovely. Alfred has exquisite taste."

"He does," he agrees, "but I'm afraid I'll have to take credit for this—"

"—which I'd believe if Auntie Carmen had let you see my dress—"

"—which she didn't. The butterfly was just a coincidence. I bought it because I knew it would match your eyes."

He wins that round. She looks up questioningly, but his gaze is as inscrutable as it is intense.

She looks away, but it does nothing to lessen the effect he is having on her. She can feel how effortlessly they move together, gliding around the floor perfectly in tandem. Her dress envelops his legs one moment, then sways out and away behind her every time they change direction with the ebb and flow of music. She catches sight of them in a mirror, and even she has to admit they look remarkably well together. Perfectly in accord, partners in crime, impeccably matched down to his pocket square and her dress, her gloves and the detailing of his suit, his cuff links and her earrings.

After a lifetime — or was it only a second? — the waltz comes to a thundering end as he spins them to a standstill in the center of the floor.

She drops into another curtsey. The front page of Gothamite Magazine flashes through her imagination again, but he merely raises her hand to his lips before finally disentangling their fingers. He pockets her crushed mask, a thrill running through the more romantic guests at the sentimental gesture, thoughts of murder running through the more jealously inclined.

Over Bruce's shoulder, she catches sight of Selina staring her down from the edge of the dance floor. The socialite's red lips curve upward in a dangerous smile as she raises her champagne glass to salute Valencia. A hit, acknowledged.

War, declared.

* * *

><p><em><strong>This is the world that we live in.<strong>_  
><em><strong>I can't take blame for two. <strong>_  
><em><strong>This is the world that we live in,<strong>_  
><em><strong>And maybe we'll make it through.<strong>_

_**Bless your body, bless your soul, **_  
><em><strong>Reel me in and cut my throat. <strong>_  
><em><strong>Underneath the waterfall, Baby, we're still in this.<strong>_

_**This is the world that we live in. **_  
><em><strong>I feel myself get tired. <strong>_  
><em><strong>This is the world that we live in. <strong>_

_**I had a dream that I was falling down. **_  
><em><strong>There's no next time around. <strong>_  
><em><strong>A storm wastes its water on me, <strong>_  
><em><strong>But my life was free. <strong>_

_**I guess it's the world that we live in. **_  
><em><strong>It's not too late for that. <strong>_  
><em><strong>This is the world that we live in, <strong>_  
><em><strong>And no, we can't go back.<strong>_

* * *

><p>"Let's give another round of applause for this year's winners of the Million-Dollar Masquerade, Bruce Wayne and Valencia Carter!" Mrs. Ashland declares with horribly false enthusiasm. "And we'd like to express our fervent thanks to Mr. Wayne for his generosity and charity, especially toward Miss Carter—"<p>

Bruce gives her a look, just a glance in her direction, but it's enough to make words fail Megara Ashland once more. Lukewarm, scattered applause fills the awkward silence before the band strikes up another tune.

Somehow, they are separated. One second, his hand is resting on her hip, the next second he's nowhere near. She catches a glimpse of Mrs. Ashland stalking off with Bruce literally in her clutches, but before she can follow, everyone else is pressing close, crushing the many layers of her dress against her legs as they clamor for her attention, exclaiming over her dress, claiming acquaintance from Brentwood and Gotham Prep, and asking questions, so many questions.

She excuses herself to go use the restroom but instead slips into a dark, abandoned alcove on the second floor. Her head is pounding in time to her rapid heartbeat, and it feels like she hasn't breathed properly in the last fifteen minutes.

She snatches a glass of champagne from a startled waiter and drinks the entire contents in one gulp. Better. She takes another glass and sips it more slowly. _God, get a grip, Carter. All you've done is bring Gotham to its knees._

A laugh rises at the thought, but she quickly stifles it for fear of being discovered and the more real fear that she's going slightly insane. She takes a calming breath and prepares to step out again under the glare of chandelier lights and appraising eyes.

A hand grasps her wrist. Acting on pure instinct, she whirls around the curtain that separates her and her assailant, and for a moment everything is a confusion of black silk and twisting bodies. She uses his hold as leverage to spin herself around, giving herself enough momentum to strike at him with her other hand - the one holding a glass of champagne. He uses his own free hand to stop it, trapping it high above her head, and thus, she finds herself tangled up with Bruce Wayne.

The perfect way to describe her life.

The glass slips from her fingers, and he effortlessly catches it before it can hit the ground, preventing even a drop from spilling. He straightens, and they quickly glance around to make sure no one had noticed his display of reflexes. Luckily, their little scuffle fails to attract any attention, and he releases her.

"Jesus Christ," she mutters, quickly emptying her glass and setting it down so he can't see how her hands are shaking.

He smiles. "No, just me."

She really could slap him at that moment. As an alternative, she accepts yet another glass of champagne from a waiter, and out of pure generosity, gets one for Bruce as well.

"Maybe you should slow down a bit," Bruce suggests, taking the other glass from her. She doesn't think it's quite necessary for him to envelop her hand with his in the process.

"I have been drinking champagne since I was fourteen years old. I can hold my liquor *very* well," she assures him, raising her glass in toast. "I can certainly keep up with you, at least."

"Don't let me be your standard. You'll be very disappointed." He tips half his glass into a nearby potted plant. It's almost worth getting caught for the astonished look on her face.

"My God, you're perfect," she murmurs, downing half of hers. "It must be exhausting to be as saintly as you."

"You'll forgive me for coming in at two in the afternoon, then, Miss Carter?"

"I'll forgive you anything if you can attend parties like this stone-cold sober."

"Forgive me for abandoning you just now?" He gestures at the chaos on the dance floor, everyone still buzzing about the surprising turn of events.

"I wouldn't call five minutes 'abandonment,' but what did Megara Ashland want?"

"She was just making sure I was good for the money."

She snorts. "Making sure Bruce Wayne is good for the money? She probably also _just_ wanted to know what I wear to bed, when we're getting married, and how many kids we're going to have."

"I told her nothing... January, and five."

It takes her a moment to make sense of what he said. Her eyes light up. "So Bruce Wayne does have a sense of humor." She thinks for a moment. "Who gets married in January?"

He grins. Of all the answers he thinks she's going object to, it isn't that one. He's starting to like her more and more.

He sees a group of guests coming their way, and he's suddenly seized by the desire to keep Valencia all to himself, to not have to share her with everyone else, at least for that night.

"Hey, do you want to get out of here?" he asks abruptly.

"Um—"

But he's already relieved her of her glass and replaced it with his hand. He's pulling her out of the alcove and through another, and another. They're running down the length of the opera house, dodging and pushing curtains out of their way, interrupting intimate moments with hurried apologies as they fly by.

They burst into a back hallway, where the service staff freeze at the sudden intrusion, but with an easy smile he asks for the valet who parked his car. After a moment of confusion, the valet is located. He shoves a long box into Valencia's hands and car keys into Bruce's, accepts a $200 tip, and points them in the direction of where he parked the car.

A moment later, they're running down the center aisle of opera house main floor. He feels her slowing down and looks back over his shoulder to see what the matter is. She's looking up at the dizzying heights of the multiple balconies and rows of boxes, at the grand stage cloaked in a curtain of red velvet.

"I'll take you next week," he promises, forgetting that he's successfully avoided the opera for the last 23 years.

"I'll hold you to that," she promises, allowing him to pull her across a row of seats and through a well-concealed side door as she gives one last wistful glance at the dark auditorium.

She nearly runs into him. He stops short outside the door, realization hitting him like a brick wall. It's the alley where his parents had been shot, killed... the same cracked, dirty asphalt on which his mother's pearls had scattered... where his father had told him not to be afraid with his dying breath... where he had sat for seemingly hours until the police arrived...

"Bruce?"

Valencia touches his arm tentatively. He reacts violently, catching her arm in a vice-like grip, starting to twist it painfully—

"Bruce!"

He jerks back to reality and lets go of her as if burned. His next gesture startles her almost as much: He reaches up and cups her cheek, though he seems hardly to know what he's doing. For a moment, he's truly unmasked. She can see the distress plainly in his eyes.

"Are you all right? Did I hurt you?" he asks in concern.

"I'm fine," she finds herself answering, smiling weakly. "Let's get out of here."

He nods and leads the way to the Lamborghini. He doesn't touch her again, and for some reason she feels cold despite the warm July evening.

He starts to feel more himself as he revs up the engine, speeding past the gaggle of photographers hanging around the opera house entrance. The paparazzi recognize the car too late as it roars by, though hopeful flashbulbs go off anyway.

"What's this, then?" she asks lightly, trying to regain their earlier lightheartedness as they speed out of the city.

"I don't know," he answers honestly, glancing over in interest as she begins to untie the ribbons on it. "You did have a lot of admirers this evening."

She throws him a look. "Green doesn't suit you, Mr. Wayne. But if you're the pot calling the kettle black..."

She trails off, losing her train of thought at the sight before her.

"Is—is this some sort of a joke?" she asks shakily.

Bruce glances down at her lap. Nestled in a cloud of tissue paper lies a dozen dead roses.

"You also made some enemies this evening," he says, his mouth a grim line. "Is there a card with it?"

She rummages in the box gingerly, wary of what else she might find in there. She comes up with a small black envelope. Lifting up the flap, she withdraws the card.

A Joker.

* * *

><p><em><strong>This is the world that we live in.<strong>_  
><em><strong>I still want something real. <strong>_  
><em><strong>This is the world that we live in. <strong>_  
><em><strong>I know that we can heal over time. <strong>_

_**This is the world that we live in. **_  
><em><strong>This is the world that we live in.<strong>_  
>—"The World We Live In" by The Killers<p>

* * *

><p><em><strong>AN**__: Please review!_

**Thanks so, so much for reviewing. Your comments spur me on to update as quickly as I can! **starrycat05 (x2), garnet86 (x2), Spanish Angel, ThreeQuartersOfTheWayThere, criminal-intent, You cant rush science, TheBrokenHeartedLamb, -lyLovely45, Reviewwwwwwwww, juli 8D1819, Seressi10, Diadora, EvilPurpleCookiePenkeyMongui n, 252020, mydaddoesntsmellofelderberri es, L. Darling, Wandringstar, Gwen56, Hope and love, Aleiafae, SaxonBandwagon, Guest, actressen, kari10, MaraJade4S, j3ntheninja, and Samlily41.

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	10. The Breakfast

_**Disclaimer:**__ Unfortunately, nothing is mine except Valencia Carter and this silly little fairy tale._

* * *

><p><strong>GOTHAM'S CINDERELLA<strong>  
><strong>Chapter 10: The Breakfast<br>**_Valencia Carter. The answer to Bruce Wayne's problems, the start of many more for Batman._  
>"When the Day Met the Night" by Panic! At the Disco<p>

* * *

><p>Bruce stretches and glances at the clock, surprised to see it's 4 o'clock in the morning. He's been in the cave running analyses on the newest Joker card since they arrived at the manor nearly three hours ago.<p>

The computer beeps, and he sits up expectantly, hoping that at last he would have some lead, some information, _something_ that will take him a step closer to apprehending the Joker. But it's just a rushed edition of Gothamite Magazine that pops up on the screen, flagged by the search engine because of Valencia's name.

Valencia Carter.

The answer to Bruce Wayne's problems, the start of many more for Batman. He and Alfred would have to keep a closer eye on his secretary-turned-girlfriend, starting with a permanent room for her at both the Manor and the penthouse. No hotel he owns, no matter how many stars it has, can compare to the safety of these two residences. He would also have to enlist Lucius' help, in case the Joker would be so bold as to attempt a daytime attack at Wayne Enterprises.

He rubs his face tiredly and begins to take off his rumpled tuxedo. He would have to explain everything to Valencia too, he supposes, but he wonders whether alerting her would do more harm than good. There's a dangerous impulsiveness that drives her, which is all very well if you want to provoke her into having dinner with you or playing your girlfriend, but there's no telling what she might do with the knowledge that she's at the top of a maniacal serial killer's hit list.

He wouldn't put it past her to do something reckless and stupid to try to draw the Joker out. He remembers quite clearly the way she had confronted him as Batman, in business casual and flats. Of course, he understands. When there's no one to live for, it gets easier to try to throw your life away. Well, he would just have to make sure she goes on living. For Alfred's sake, of course.

* * *

><p><em><strong>When the moon fell in love with the sun, all was golden in the sky,<strong>_  
><em><strong>All was golden when the day met the night.<strong>_  
><em><strong>When the sun found the moon, she was drinking tea in a garden,<strong>_  
><em><strong>Under the green umbrella trees, in the middle of summer.<strong>_  
><em><strong>When the moon found the sun, he looked like he was barely hanging on,<strong>_  
><em><strong>But her eyes saved his life in the middle of summer.<strong>_

_**In the middle of summer, all was golden in the sky.**_  
><em><strong>All was golden when the day met the night.<strong>_  
><em><strong>Summer, all was golden in the sky.<strong>_  
><em><strong>All was golden when the day met the night.<strong>_  
><em><strong>Summer, summer, summer, summer.<strong>_  
><em><strong>All was golden when the day met the night.<strong>_

* * *

><p>Bruce has every intention of collapsing on his bed and sleeping as late as Alfred will let him, when a loud <em>thud<em> echoes throughout the house. The manor is still far from fully furnished, and any sound carries through 40,000 square feet of largely empty space.

Bruce warily steps out of his bedroom and glances around suspiciously. All is quiet on the second floor, Valencia's door is shut, and no light shines through the crack beneath. He peers over the balustrade and sees nothing amiss below either, but nonetheless he descends the staircase to investigate further.

As he passes through the entrance hall, he catalogues the few pieces of furniture to see if anything is missing. He frowns at the empty space underneath the chandelier, recalling a marble scrollwork table that had been there a few days ago. But thieves wouldn't have chosen such a heavy piece of furniture to steal. Well, he hadn't been partial to it anyway.

His trained ear catches the sound of more movement coming from the kitchen. He eyes some curtain rods standing in the corner but passes without taking one, confident in his ability to subdue a petty burglar or two. Being Batman has its perks.

Light spills out into the hallway from the kitchen. He stops on the edge of the shadows, wondering what amateur thieves would raid a kitchen when an entire mansion, albeit scantily furnished, is at hand. He hears the sound of footsteps shuffling from the pantry to the stove, then the stove being lit.

The tension in his body melts away as he realizes what's going on. When he hears her move into the colossal pantry (Alfred's renovation request), he props himself up against the doorway, lazily crossing his arms across his chest.

His carefully arrogant pose is ruined when he feels the sharp edge of a knife pressed against his throat.

"Don't move," commands a voice, steely as the blade.

Moderately impressed she had been able to sneak up on him, he toys with the idea of disarming her. But the memory of her reaction in the alcove a few hours ago, the way they'd twisted and tangled one another after he'd snuck up on her, officially categorizes this as a bad idea. Then, they'd had layers of formal evening wear and a curtain separating them. This time, the only silk to act as a barrier would be that of his dressing gown. And this was purely a business arrangement, after all.

"Breaking up with me already?" he asks calmly, the knife grazing his Adam's apple as he speaks.

The light flares on, leaving both of them blinking in the sudden brightness. Once they've adjusted, her eyes widen at his attire, and despite her best efforts to act nonchalant, a tell-tale blush blooms on her cheeks. His grin broadens at her flustered state.

"No, the murder doesn't happen until after we're married," she informs him blithely.

"I should let you know that in the event of my death, Alfred inherits everything," he informs her solemnly.

"You're going to change your will, of course, in light of any potential heirs that might result from our union." She turns her attention back to the stove. His eyes narrow slightly. She's given this a little too much thought. "Oh, and your robe's undone," she tosses over her shoulder.

He looks down and sees the offending garment is an inch away from being completely irrelevant. Torn between embarrassment and smugness, he nonetheless ties the belt securely at his waist. Double knot.

He comes up behind and peers over her shoulder at the eggs she's cracked into the pan on the stove.

"Too bad there aren't any photographers around," she says, nodding at their reflection in the window. "We could start a bidding war between Good Housekeeping and Better Homes and Garden."

By some coincidence, she's wearing the pajama set that matches his dressing gown. Despite the fact that she needs to roll back the sleeves some five times to allow her to safely flip the eggs without catching fire, she manages to fill out the pajamas in some key areas.

"Alfred's lingerie choices not up to scratch?" he asks, searching the cabinets for a mixing bowl.

"He forgot to buy me pajamas, so I stole some of yours," she explains. "I hope you don't mind."

"Not at all." He gives her a once-over from over his shoulder. "It suits you, for the most part."

"For the most part?"

He smiles rakishly. "The parts that count."

She raises her eyebrows at the questionable compliment.

"Trade you a couple eggs for a couple pancakes," he offers, before either of them can decide whether or not he had just made a pass at her.

He ties on Alfred's apron. She thinks he's kidding until he begins to fill the bowl with the necessary ingredients, not even bothering to measure.

He catches her staring and smirks. "Contrary to popular belief, Alfred hasn't been spoon-feeding me my entire life."

"Contrary to popular belief: the perfect way to describe Bruce Wayne," she echoes softly, repeating what she had said to Alfred before the masquerade. She shakes her head at the sight of him making pancakes in the middle of the night in an apron-covered dressing gown. "Now I really wish we had some photographers around."

"There are probably a few of them hiding in the bushes."

"With security like yours? I doubt it."

"You can never be too careful." He pauses, debating whether or not he should seize this perfect opportunity to warn her about the Joker. "Speaking of which, I think it would be best if you stayed either here or at the penthouse from now on. We can have your things from the hotel by morning."

"Isn't it a bit too early for us to be moving in together?"

"Well, we are supposed to be getting married in January."

Her smile dims slightly. "Is this... is it because of the Joker?"

He doesn't answer, and that's answer enough.

"Do you think he knows about you?" she asks in concern. Somehow, he's not surprised that she thinks this is all about him, about Batman. He decides to go with it.

"We can't be too careful. If he does know, he might use you to get to me."

"Occupational hazard of being Batman's alter ego's girlfriend, I suppose."

"I won't let anything happen to you."

The sincerity and assurance behind the pledge startles her. It's not an empty promise, but that's not what catches her off guard. What surprises her is that she believes him, trusts him to keep her safe.

She rouses herself in time to serve the eggs onto their waiting plates, and before she knows it, he's flipping pancakes the way Bruce Wayne does everything: with supreme confidence, a little bit of flair and a smile.

She feels herself smiling back like an idiot, so she busies herself with the absorbing task of finding a couple of trays for them to eat off of.

"Because someone couldn't be bothered to pick out furniture for the dining room or the breakfast room," she chides.

"Where's that table that was under the chandelier?"

"Oh, I thought you didn't like it, so I had it sent back. Shouldn't I have?"

"Took up too much space, don't you think?"

"Yes, how would we teach our five children the art of spinning under chandeliers and sliding down banisters with that in the way?"

She can feel him staring at her with that inscrutable look in his eyes, so she flips her hair over one shoulder to better see the storage space under the sink and block her own face from his view.

"Best place to watch the sunrise?" he challenges suddenly.

"The conservatory," she answers easily. She stops rummaging for a tray and looks up at him over the edge of the counter, her eyes wide. "But Alfred would never let us eat there!"

He suddenly has a vision of a six-year-old with the same red hair, same wide eyes and same excited expression tiptoeing to peer above the same counter. Something tugs at his chest. He shakes it off and smiles winningly as he reaches for the trays sitting neatly on top of the refrigerator, out of her sight and reach.

"I think we're old enough to do what we want, don't you?"

* * *

><p><em><strong>So he said, 'Would it be all right if we just sat and talked for a little while,<strong>_  
><em><strong>If in exchange for your time I give you this smile?'<strong>_  
><em><strong>So she said, 'That's okay, as long as you can make a promise<strong>_  
><em><strong>Not to break my little heart or leave me all alone in the summer.'<strong>_

_**Well, he was just hanging around, then he fell in love.**_  
><em><strong>And he didn't know how, But he couldn't get out.<strong>_  
><em><strong>Just hanging around, Then he fell in love.<strong>_

* * *

><p>Luckily, someone had ordered some furniture for the conservatory, so instead of sitting on the cold marble floor, they are lying on decadently comfortable lounge chairs, enjoying a meal that added up to more calories than all the hors d'oeuvres served at the masquerade put together. Bruce, who had wiped his plate clean in about three minutes, now lies with his hands under his head, staring through the pristine, almost delicate-looking glass overhead as the night sky begins to show the first signs of dawn.<p>

"The back door of the opera house, the alley... it was where my parents... It's where they were shot. I haven't been there since... it happened."

It takes him a moment to realize that this halting confession had been said out loud. He turns to look at her and gauge her reaction. Her expression is a study in neutrality.

"I know," she says quietly, twirling a piece of pancake in a puddle of syrup. "That is, I didn't know right away," she amends, "but what happened when you realized... well, it wasn't hard to guess."

"I hope I didn't hurt you," he says, the end of his sentence lilting upward in question.

She smiles reassuringly. "If it's any consolation, we don't have to go to the opera next week."

"We'll go," he says, remembering the longing look on her face as they'd run through the theater. "Though it is pretty boring."

She gives him a look. "You'll forgive me for disregarding an 8-year-old's opinion on opera."

"Don't tell me Wayne Enterprises never sent their Scholars on a field trip."

"I've been to the opera house dozens of times, but never to see a play. I've always wanted to go." She's about to leave it at that, but something makes her continue. "You see, Nathan and I got to enjoy all the perks as long as the camera was rolling, but at the end of the day, he went home to the Narrows, and I... well, I went home here, so I guess I didn't have it as badly. But... sometimes I think seeing what they had and what we didn't only helped put us in our place, a constant reminder that you're an outsider. We might have gone to school with the Kyles and the Knights and the Kanes, even attended the same parties, but... we were never truly one of them."

"Well, you are now."

For a moment, she wants to humor his naivete. "No, I don't think so," she says finally. "Oh, they'll tolerate me and pretend we're the best of friends when you're around, but accepting me as one of them? Never." She smiles, but it doesn't reach her eyes. "Didn't you see Selina's face when you said my name?"

"No," Bruce says honestly. "I was too busy figuring out how to untie your mask."

"You did it very well, I thought," she compliments. "Do you have a lot of practice undoing things one-handed, Mr. Wayne?" she asks tartly.

"I save Gotham single-handed nearly every night," he deadpans.

"Humble, too." They exchange smiles over their glasses of milk. "This is going to work, isn't it?"

"Did you have doubts?" Her smile dims, and his tone loses its playfulness. "You were going to leave. Why?"

Her fingers play idly with the rim of her glass. "One million dollars is enough to convince a girl she's being played with. It wasn't until you were pulling me to the center of the dance floor that I was finally convinced it wasn't a joke... at least not on me."

"I should have let you go," he says, looking away. "You didn't have a chance once they knew who you were."

"I didn't have a chance once I found out your little secret," she reminds him. Her smile fades as she realizes he's being serious. "Please don't think you're using me, Mr. Wayne."

"Aren't I?"

"Only as much as I'm using you, I'm afraid."

"Are we back to 'Mr. Wayne,' then?" he asks lightly. "Here I thought we'd moved on to first names, Valencia." She hates the intimacy he's able to infuse in her name when she can barely say his without stuttering. "And I thought, Valencia, that we weren't going to pretend that's the only reason you agreed to do this."

Something flashes across her face, but before he can decipher it, she jumps to her feet and begins gathering their empty dishes with alarming efficiency. Snatching his glass out of her reach, Bruce follows her as she walks briskly to the kitchen.

"You shouldn't make the mistake of thinking everyone's as good as you, Bruce." Her hair is doing a good job of acting as a curtain again.

"Don't think I believe that, Lence. Not about you."

The nickname slips out unexpectedly. Her eyes widen a little in surprise, but then she's walking briskly towards the stairs. He takes longer strides to keep even with her.

"The truth wasn't in our contract, Bruce."

Somehow, it stings, the reminder that she's only there because of a contractual agreement. They climb the stairs in silence, steps echoing in the still-empty house that suddenly seems so much larger than five minutes ago.

They stop at the top of the staircase, the point at which they have to head in opposite directions. She sighs. "Look, it's been... an eventful evening," she says inadequately, rubbing her temple. "I'm sorry—"

"You looked worried, right before I took off your mask," he says suddenly, voicing something that had been floating in the back of his head all night long. "What did you think I was going to do?"

In the uncertain light, she can't tell whether he's teasing or being serious. She decides to tell him the plain and simple truth.

"Well, I thought you were going to kiss me," she says frankly.

He considers this thoughtfully. "Huh. That would have worked too."

They lock eyes, her grey-blue orbs looking up at him from beneath the fringe of her bangs. For a moment he thinks that he's gone too far, that she's just going to walk away, like she'd done the first night he had brought her to the manor. The same mysterious smile graces her lips. Then—

"Well, there's always next time."

And with that thought hanging in the air between them, they head to their rooms.

"Good night, Lence," he throws over his shoulder, testing out her new nickname once more.

"Good night, Mr. Wayne."

* * *

><p><em><strong>In the middle of summer, all was golden in the sky.<strong>_  
><em><strong>All was golden when the day met the night.<strong>_  
><em><strong>Summer, all was golden in the sky.<strong>_  
><em><strong>All was golden when the day met the night.<strong>_  
><em><strong>Summer, summer, summer, summer.<strong>_

_**When the moon fell in love with the sun, all was golden in the sky.**_  
><em><strong>All was golden when the day met the night.<strong>_  
><em><strong>Summer, summer, summer, summer.<strong>_  
><em><strong>The middle of summer, summer, summer, summer.<strong>_  
><em><strong>The middle of summer summer, summer, summer.<strong>_  
><em><strong>The middle of summer summer, summer, summer<strong>_  
><em><strong>The middle of...<strong>_

* * *

><p><strong>Thanks so much for reviewing!<strong> ZabuzasGirl, Avarianna, garnet86, Tearful Reunion, Wandringstar, and rachelle.

**Thanks to all of you for favoriting GC!** Idyllic, ZabuzasGirl, NightEverglot, Raidersforthewin, Luuh2311, The Dark Knightress, LuvxXLessxXAngelxX, Mrs. Crosby87, Shadrala, China2009, Nerdman3000, SophStratt, and aleaobb.

**And thanks for adding GC to your alerts!** Idyllic, geranium08, Nymartian, JasperControlsMyEmotions, brucy, clarinetgirl628, Avarianna, hotforlurve, ForeverYoung22, viper marie Cahill, Luuh2311, vertigirl, baiters08, Alexstarlight18, Ellerosse, TheDrawer, Shadrala, the-fox-love, secretdewdrop, Nerdman3000, Veryamedliel, SophStratt, and aleaobb.


	11. Not a chapter but important update!

Hi everyone!

I know you haven't heard from me in quite a while, but I just wanted to take the opportunity on my 11th (!) anniversary of being on this site to say that I have returned to working on "Gotham's Cinderella" after nearly two years away.

If you followed my other stories "Revertere Totalis" and "Shadows of Ourselves," you'll know that I finished those two stories last summer in a big push that had me revising old chapters and posting new ones every few days. That is my plan for GC.

So please start looking for revisions and updates within the next few weeks. And thanks for sticking around for all these years.

~InkFairy


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